


The Lesson

by Tessaray



Category: One Life to Live
Genre: Child Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heavy Angst, Kink, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessaray/pseuds/Tessaray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Begins on New Year's Eve, 1997, when Todd Manning sees Téa Delgado dancing at Rodi's. It stirs up more feelings than he can handle, so he decides to teach her a lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Vintage Todd, in all his glorious pre-millenium torment, as played by Roger Howarth. I came very late to the Todd/Téa party, like 15 years late, so I don't expect there's much of an audience for them anymore, but I just had to write about them. Theirs was such a beautifully conceived, written and acted story, with such deep, compassionate understanding of the mysteries of the human heart and the ways we sabotage ourselves. I think it's the best exploration of a doomed relationship I've ever seen. Love love love it. 
> 
> The YouTube clip that inspired this story can be found here, but ignore everything after 6:55, that's where this AU story picks up.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fNl9vaNCVc&list=PLJ9t04WS7Wgs1wAx9KzmH2xUrDDW6u85C&index=2
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and am making no money from this story. It's a good thing I don't own Todd — I'd just sit around and play with his hair all day.

Téa Delgado feels their eyes on her and it feels  _good_. One drink in her to loosen things up, another to dull the memory of her so-called husband, actual conversation instead of verbal sparring, a tight, off-the-shoulder black dress that clings to her hips, and their eyes do the rest. She sways on Rodi's dance floor to a salsa beat as familiar to her as her own name, and no matter how far out Antonio Vega spins her, she moves back into his waiting arms as though born for this.

She tells herself she's glad Todd isn't here to ring in 1998, that it was a sheer Hail Mary to have invited him in the first place. These are nice people, and Todd doesn't do nice. He doesn't do festive, or friendship or anything that could threaten his misery. So screw him. Let him mope in that lonely penthouse, surrounded by his gloom and his glorious hair. She will drink and twirl and bask in her temporary freedom and the desire of other men.

Antonio is holding her close now, staring deeply into her eyes. He knows where she comes from, knows her secrets, and they are moving together in perfect, effortless rhythm. How easy it would be to send a signal, to see him respond to her as men always had, with a flash of heat in his eyes.

Unlike Todd, he wouldn't turn away.

When the song ends and she's flushed, vibrating, wanting more, she realizes with disgust that she misses Todd; misses the micro-expressions that play like music over his face, misses his sarcasm and grumpiness. Most of all, she misses  _his_  eyes on her, in those moments when he can't quite hide what he's feeling.

 _Ay Dios mio, Delgado,_  she thinks.  _You're pathetic._

So when Nora Gannon tells her that Todd had, in fact, been there watching her little performance and had stormed out the back, her heart both leaps and sinks.

###

Todd Manning paces in the alley behind Rodi's, hands fisted in his coat pockets. Nora Gannon saw him inside and, because she can't keep her big mouth shut, she'll tell Delgado. If he knows his Delgado, and he's starting to, she'll come after him. He could just go home and watch that Jerry Lewis film festival, tell Delgado he was at the penthouse all night, that Nora must have been drunk and hallucinating. But Delgado won't let it go. She never lets anything go.

Neither does he.

So he waits.

He stamps his feet as an icy wind lashes his long hair across his cheeks. He should be cold, but recent images of his wife—pawing another man, her hips swaying sensually—are keeping a fire banked low in his belly. He doesn't know why he'd even come here, why he'd grabbed his coat and keys before thinking it through. But when has he ever thought anything through? Like this damned marriage; it got him custody of Shorty but it's starting to cost more than he's willing to pay. He is trying, though, trying to do what Delgado wants, trying to make it  _mostly_  real.

So he'd come. And found her making a spectacle of herself in the center of that ring of drooling idiots...she may as well have been pole dancing, the way they were all ogling her. He feels a stab of jealousy but shoves it away.

They made a  _deal_. It's right there in the contract: she's supposed to act married in public and not embarrass him. If the five million bucks he's paying her isn't enough to make her behave, then what the hell is? He feels the familiar constriction, the heat, the rage, boiling in his gut, blurring the edges of this thoughts.

She was smiling at Antonio—a private smile he's never seen—looking into his eyes, practically rubbing herself against his crotch. The heat rushes to Todd's throat, forcing a strangled roar and before he can stop himself, his fist shoots out, connects with the side of a wooden crate, smashing it to splinters. He grabs the wrecked thing, throws it across the alley where it lands with a crash that should satisfy him. He turns on his heels, rakes his hands through his hair with a frustrated groan.

_Delgado..._

###

Instinctively, Téa grabs her coat and heads for the back door to follow Todd. She is faintly surprised that she hadn't picked up on his presence in Rodi's, as hyper-aware of him as she's become lately. He acts on her like ozone before an approaching storm, prickling the back of her neck, heightening her senses.

 _'Su esposo loco?_ ' Antonio says, leaning on the bar, watching her. 'Why do you have to go running after him?'

_'Cuidado, Antonio.'_

'No,  _you_  be careful, _mija_. Nora said he looked very pissed. He doesn't like you dancing with other men, why doesn't he cut in, stake his claim?'

'Todd is...,' she searches for the right word.

'Twisted?'

That hurts her. She knows it's the general consensus, has heard it often enough and even once believed it herself. But now...

'He's unique, Antonio.'

_'Seguro!'_

'Look, I'm not going to stand here and defend my husband, or my choices, to you.'

'He doesn't deserve you, _mija. Ya tu sabes_.' He turns and heads back toward the music, gesturing for her to follow him.

She should. She should leave Todd to his brooding, stop riding to his rescue and getting insulted, ignored or thrown out of windows for her trouble. And her reward? A small fortune and a daily migraine.

But he'd come to Rodi's tonight; it's a baby step in the right direction. And for his efforts, he'd gotten to see her flaunting herself and open to...other possibilities. She feels an overwhelming surge of guilt and starts to pull on her coat, but stops herself. Antonio is right. Todd saw her dancing with another man—so what? He's made it repeatedly and painfully clear that he doesn't want her, so time to stop wasting emotional energy on him.

She'll down another drink, get back on that dance floor and go where the night takes her. That's what she'll do.

Or not.

###

 _If she would just lock her damn door_ , Todd thinks, rubbing his bruised knuckles. It's the light blue robe that really gets him, the silky thing that flows over her body like water, tied with a fragile knot at the waist, so easy to undo, so easy to slip open, run his hands up her thighs...

In the shower, in his bed, he thinks these things. Before she moved in, he had a mechanical nightly ritual—get off just to ease the pressure. But now he has  _fantasies_ , of taking her in the shower, in the kitchen, from behind, dominating her, forcing her to—

But no. He can't allow himself to think that way anymore, to give into the darker impulses of degradation and abuse, as seductive as those impulses can be. So he wrenches his mind in the direction of gentler things, _healthier_  things involving her mouth, his cock and that blue robe...it takes longer, but still works.

Of course, he can't ask her to lock her door because she'll want to know why and start inferring all kinds of shit and it'll be a big thing because that's how she operates. She'll look at him all full of hope and desire, maybe even touch his cheek like she did that doomed night at the Bayberry Inn, making him feel things he has no business feeling, want things...

She might even tell him again that she  _trusts_  him and then it'll take everything he has not to smack her, because Delgado is a brilliant woman and to trust him is just idiotic.

He had rejected her that night, bullied her to make her understand what he is...showed her too much of himself in the process.

_Life irritates me, all the time...it's like I'm missing all this skin and rolling around on sandpaper…_

Much too much of himself.

_…there's nothing left for you, Delgado…_

Whatever—it worked. She backed off.

Moved on.

With Antonio fucking Vega.

That was obvious to anyone who saw them dancing. Her skin was flushed, glistening with perspiration, her lips were parted and inviting, her hips—God, the way her hips moved. He wanted to...

But none of it was for him. Not a bit of it, and it's his own doing. He made the mistake of marrying a passionate, sensual woman. She's hot and she's horny and if she can't get it from him, she'll get it someplace else. He feels the rage boiling again, hopes the first person out the door will be Antonio so he can break his face.


	2. Chapter 2

Téa pushes through the back door and into an alley lit by nothing but a glowing red _Rodi's_ sign. Dumpsters, empty liquor crates and other bar detritus crowd the narrow space and she pauses, thinking better of her plan to go after Todd, when a powerfully-built figure with hunched shoulders separates itself from the shadows. Téa gasps and freezes.

Todd is pleased by her fear. Ordinarily, he'd hate himself for that, but he's never seen it before, even when Blair shoved her out that window, and he knows it will evaporate the second she realizes it's him. Besides, he's angry. He even briefly considers drawing out the moment, but since it  _is_  New Year's Eve...

'Delgado.' It comes out as a snarl. His face is impassive, and in the red glow of the sign the hook-shaped scar on his cheek looks fresh and bloody.

' _Coño_!' Téa's shoulders sag with relief. She hugs her coat around her. 'Todd. I was just coming to find you. Why are you lurking out here?'

'I'm not lurking, Delgado. I'm waiting. For you and your  _lawyer_.' He stuffs his fists into his pockets, his long hair and overcoat whip in the wind. 'Where is Señor Twinkle-toes, anyway?'

Téa sighs heavily. 'I knew you'd be like this, Todd. Antonio Vega and I are  _friends_.'

Her voice is hoarse from a recent cold, about an octave lower than usual, and it goes right to his groin. And the way she says Vega's name, with that Spanish accent... she's getting to him and he resents it.

'Save it for someone stupid,  _wife_.' He takes a step toward her.

She doesn't retreat, but feels it again, the buzz in the air whenever he's near her. 'Look, Todd, it's freezing out here. Why don't we go back inside and—'

'So tell me, Delgado,' he says conversationally, tilting his head and sweeping his eyes up her body. 'Did that turn you on, gyrating for a roomful of horny lawyers?' His tone is quiet, light, barely audible above the whistle of the wind, but it contains a distinct edge of malice.

Téa clears her throat and delicately tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She refuses to play in his sandbox tonight.

'Actually, I'd say that fewer than half of them are lawyers, Todd. Let's see, you know Bo, Jessica—'

He scowls, hates when she derails him. 'You know what I mean, Delgado.'

'I don't know that I do, Todd.'

He advances on her slowly, stopping only when they're standing toe to toe. She's beautiful, defiant, her usually perfect hair is wind-blown and tousled, the way it might look after a night of rough sex. The effect isn't lost on him. She's got him off balance tonight, reckless, his anger transforming into something he refuses to feel, so he goes on the offensive.

'I mean,' he says quietly, choosing his words for maximum impact. 'Did it turn you on...to know that every single guy in that place wanted to...  _fuck_  you?'

Téa's mouth drops open, but she closes it just as quickly when she sees his look of triumph. For all his foul manners, and even fouler moods, he has never once used that word in her presence. But she likes the way it echoes in her ear, likes the way his lips seemed to taste it before giving it voice. And she likes that the thought occurred to him.

'Well, Todd,' she says, tilting her chin down and looking up at him through her lashes. ' _You_  were in that room. Are you saying—'

He stiffens and his eyes widen in a familiar expression of panic. This is where he usually ducks his head, steps back, gets angry, accuses her of something ludicrous...

Instead, he stands his ground. Part of him aches to say,  _yeah, I want the same thing they want… to take you, be inside you, make you tremble and scream and beg..._

Their bodies are close and their breath mingles, crystalizing between them in the cold. He's rarely this close to her and she feels suddenly small, vulnerable. His eyes flash red in the light, his lips part and for one surreal, delirious moment it seems like he'll kiss her.

And he wants to, wants to sink into the heat of her mouth. He watches her face soften, her lips part. God, those lips... so simple, to just lean down, change their world forever. And as she closes her eyes, he sees something that makes his stomach turn.

Acceptance. Surrender.  _Trust_.

She still  _trusts_  him. Like a lapdog… like a best pal. Because she doesn't know his thoughts, his impulses, doesn't know he's capable of shredding a woman's insides and laughing while she shrieks. Won't take him seriously when he tries to warn her.

Trust.

 _Fuck her_.

Her features shift in confusion as he pulls back. And now she's embarrassed by her easy surrender, pink staining her cheeks. His mind takes him to a pink much lower, pink deepening to red, but he shoves that away. He decides that tonight, her embarrassment is a good start. But her fear will be even better. His cock twitches at the thought.

He tilts his head, regards her, then smiles down at her malevolently. 'What do you know about this alley, Delgado?'

She chafes her hands, trying to regain her composure, and looks around. 'Well, it's cold, it's filthy—'

'It's lousy with ghosts.'

Her eyes snap to his. He's so close she can feel his breath on her lips. He looks…eager.

'It's where I got this,' he says.

He raises his hand and slowly traces his angry scar with the middle finger of his right hand. She's primed from the near-kiss, flush with adrenaline, and she shivers as she feels the ghost of his touch on her own skn.

'So…,' she begins, clears her throat and starts again. 'So this is where you tried to—'

'To rape Marty. Again. I would have taken a crack at Luna, too, but she found this steel pipe, see, and—'

Téa feels a cold thrill of dread, refuses to show it, refuses to retreat. But animal instinct reminds her there's an escape route right behind her into Rodi's... just in case. She squares her shoulders and looks up at him defiantly. 'Todd, that was in the past.'

He heaves a sigh that ruffles her hair. Her stubbornness got him custody of Shorty, but that's one trait of hers that needs an off-switch.

'You know me so well, right Delgado? Bet you don't know this… after I found out Blair lied about being knocked up with my kid so she could get her hands on my dough, do you know what I did?'

Téa braces herself. This won't be good.

'I tried to rape her. Blair. My own  _wife_. See, she made the mistake of trusting me, too.'

The breath rushes from Téa's lungs and she's overcome by a chill that has nothing to do with the air. Todd tried to...  _rape_  Blair? She would reach out to steady herself on his arm if she could bear to touch him just now. Instead, she hugs herself tight again. He looks satisfied and takes a step back.

'I came here afterwards, so fuck—so freakin' wasted I could hardly see straight,' he says, 'And guess who shows up? Saint Marty effing Saybrooke. She actually tried to help me. Why? Because she  _forgave_  me. And Rebecca  _forgave_  me. And Blair  _forgave_  me. What is it with you chicks—are you all masochists? Can't you see I'm rotten to the core?' He gives her a glare, moves away and leans against the dumpster. 'I gotta hand it to Nora Gannon. At least she has the sense to know I'm shit and the balls to tell me to my face.'

She realizes she gave him just the reaction he was looking for… _revulsion_... so she lets it go. Her rational mind is always such a welcome friend in the world of Todd-ian chaos, and it tells her now that he clearly has an agenda aimed at scaring her off—no confession his of can be taken at face value.  

She studies him, trying, as always, to solve the puzzle of him, get to some elusive, underlying truth. She takes in the cashmere coat, the manicured nails and handmade Italian shoes... despite the obvious wealth, he seems quite at home here amidst the trash and cast-offs, lurking in the shadows on the edges of humanity, working his memories and miseries. In fact, he seems to derive power from it, a majestic...  _defiance._ And with his ravaged cheek glowing in the red light, his light eyes flashing, his hair and overcoat billowing behind him in the wind like wings, he transforms into something ancient and elemental; a demon confronting flames at the mouth of Hell, daring it to claim him. He is beautiful. _Magnificent_. 

Téa is moved, recognizes the stirring of something unnameable, but deeply familiar… like a fugitive recurring dream that leaves her aching...

'You,' she begins, swallows hard, trying to banish the image and yank her mind free from the tangle of emotions. 'You said you  _tried_  to rape Blair?'

He stares at her in disbelief, and he's all Todd again. 'That's what you latch onto? I said that, like, twenty-minutes ago and there was a whole great speech afterward.'

'I'm a lawyer,' she says, back on firm footing. 'I notice inconsistencies.'

'Whatever. It doesn't matter.' He shifts his weight, crosses his arms over his chest.

'So, what... she stopped you, someone else stopped you—'

'—Doesn't matter, Delgado!' He turns away, growling under his breath. This isn't how she's supposed to react. This is…unsatisfying.

'Well, obviously if you said you _tried_ , that means—'

'— _I_  stopped me, okay?' he shouts. 'But I  _wanted_  to! Don't you get it? I  _wanted_  to, I was  _going_  to...and that's just as bad.'

He collapses against the dumpster like he might be ready for those hellish flames after all.

'So... _Q.E.D._ ,' she says.

He looks at her like she projectile vomited.

' _Quod erat demonstrandum_. It's a Latin phrase—'

'I get  _that_ —'

'—It means, in essence, that you think you've proven your point—'

'Oh, God, Delgado, don't get all—,' he shoves away from the dumpster and begins to pace, hands raking his hair.

'But you haven't, Todd. I think you've been using that _just as bad_  argument for a long time, but it's not true. I've wanted to murder people—you, for example...,'

'Just shut up, Delgado.'

'But the thought doesn't make us guilty of the deed. The fact that you—,'

'— _Shut up_ , Delgado!'

'No, I won't shut up, Todd! Please, you need to understand this. You hate who you  _think_  you are—'

As she warms to her argument, he throws his hands in the air and turns on his heel. She hasn't learned a damn thing. She's  _defending_  him, and letting him get way too close… close enough to almost kiss her… close enough to…

'You're convinced you're a monster, so you're unwilling to consider any evidence to the contrary—Todd! Don't walk away from me!'

She watches him disappear into the shadows at the far end of the alley.

'Dammit, I  _hate_  that!' she yells after him. 'Todd!'

She doesn't actually expect a response, but she mutters to herself in frustrated outrage, like the jury has just gotten up _en masse_ and walked out during her closing argument.

'Todd!'

For the hundredth time tonight, she wonders why the hell she's bothering with him. He's right—she must be a masochist, like all the other women who thought they saw something worthwhile in him, only to be betrayed. Well, that's it. She's getting out before that happens. She'll go back inside, forget about him and enjoy the warmth of music and friendship. Then make a few New Year's resolutions involving self-respect.

Or not.


	3. Chapter 3

'Todd!' Téa moves cautiously down the dark alley behind Rodi's, the wind howling at her back. 'Answer me!'

 _Way to drive him off, Delgado. The guy comes all the way down here, sees you with another man, actually stands in the cold waiting for you, and all you can do is lecture_ …

Maybe she can at least manage to drag him back inside for the midnight toast.

'Dammit, Todd.'

She moves forward, beyond the muffled sounds of celebration and deeper into silent shadows. A bitter gust almost knocks her off her feet and she flattens a palm on the nearby brick wall to steady herself. She continues, less sure now.

'Hey, Todd?'

A chain-link fence snaps and wooden crates creak on either side of her, and in the receding glow of the _Rodi's_ sign she can see trash swirling around her feet like vermin. She doesn't know where this alley leads, and she suddenly feels vulnerable in her thin party dress and towering heels.

She flashes on Marty—trapped, tormented and nearly raped...  _again..._ in this very alley. Unwelcome sympathetic emotions arise in Téa… tastes of the terror, anguish, helplessness Todd caused.  _Todd_. She tries to push that fact away, but can't. And once again she's left struggling to reconcile the man she knows—the acerbic, repressed, wounded, intensely loving father—with the man who got off on terrorizing and abusing women. There isn't a trace of that monster in the Todd she married. She feels a spark of pride in him, that he has been able to change so completely, to subdue his demons, to become worthy of trust—

Téa stops dead in her tracks.

_I tried to rape her. Blair. My own wife. See, she made the mistake of trusting me, too._

His own words. Now that she's not busy trying to find logical loopholes or defend him to himself, Téa has room to be truly appalled. But she takes a deep, shaking breath, reminds herself that she needs to be skeptical of his version of events. Then again, she has seen him out of control with rage. She's appeased him so he wouldn't direct it at her, has backed away from him with the stirrings of fear. If Todd felt frustrated or betrayed or angry enough at Blair—who certainly  _isn't_  an appeaser…

_I wanted to…I was going to…_

He  _didn't do it_.

But he wanted to.

No. She can't do this now, not tonight, not in this alley. A new year is looming, with all the promise and uncertainty that brings, and her own certainties suddenly seem very shaky. She hugs herself tight against the darkness and bone-chilling cold; even the elements seem to be conspiring to make her feel frail and not at all equipped to deal with the force that is Todd.

She thinks of Antonio, warm and safe and familiar, only steps away inside Rodi's...just where should to be. No more misery tonight; she'll leave that to her husband. She feels instantly lighter, eager, and turns quickly.

Suddenly her skin prickles like she's been caught in a lightning storm. She cries out as a body presses against hers from behind, but a hand clamps over her mouth, silencing her. A strong arm snakes around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides, and she struggles wildly, fueled by a cold shock of adrenaline. She kicks, stomps, tries to puncture a foot with her stiletto heel, but is quickly immobilized.

'Now  _that_  was lurking,' Todd whispers in her ear.

 _'Pendejo!'_  Her curse is muffled by his hand, but she fights with renewed rage, squirming and biting at his palm. How  _dare_  he frighten her like this?

'Behave now,' he growls. 'Behave. Don't fight me.'

He got her good, the bastard.

His breath is hot on her cheek, his hand is crushing her mouth. Instead of releasing her, he pulls her closer.

'Mmm, I like you like this, Delgado,' he purrs, chilling as the wind. 'Helpless, mute. You know, you talk way too much and you think you know every goddamn thing. But you're wrong.' She feels cold teeth scrape her ear. 'You need to learn to shut up when I tell you to.'

She tries to twist away, but he grips her tighter. 'I  _said_ , don't fight me.'

Fine. She didn't want to deal with him tonight, but tonight it is. She goes slack in his arms and waits with disgust for him to let her go so she can lay into him. Another lame warning, another attempt to scare her, and despite her unease only seconds ago, this is  _Todd_ —she's lived with him for six months, she's seen him play dolls with his kid, she's protected furniture from his tirades, even corrected his hideous table manners, for God's sake. She can handle him, and is grateful to the shot of adrenaline for reminding her of that fact.

For a moment, almost guiltily, like she's stealing something, she allows herself to _feel_ him... the solid strength of his body embracing her, his energy, his heat. He's never held her before, and it hits her with a confusing flush of pleasure how large he is, how powerful. He could crush her.

'I gave you way too much control, Delgado,' he hisses. 'I let you call the shots and make me look like a fool. Well, that's over. Right now. I'm the one in charge, you got that?'

He uncovers her mouth.

'Whatever you say, Todd.'

He shakes her, hard.

'Don't you laugh at me,' he snarls. 'Don't you fucking laugh at me!'

The tingle she'd felt vanishes, and she stiffens as rage boils off him like steam.

This will take some finessing.

She starts to speak, to go into appeasement mode so he'll ease up, but he clamps his hand over her mouth again and wraps himself around her body like a python, squeezing, constricting. She cries out to tell him he's hurting her, but he only shakes her harder.

'I said _shut up_!'

This is way over the top, and she freezes. It dawns on her how unlike his earlier lame warnings this is, how _physical_. He must be desperate to get through to her. She tries to twist away, but his grip on her is absolute.

'It'll be easier on you if you behave, but I gotta say, I do  _love_  it when they fight.' His voice is hard, gleeful, with an edge of sadism that makes her skin crawl. No, this is more than Todd making a point; this man is a stranger to her, animated by something that feels so dark that she freezes, sensing a genuine threat. He presses his body against hers and grinds. 'Oh, you like that,' he drawls, low, lascivious. 'Maybe you wish I was  _Anton-i-o._ I saw you rubbing against his dick. Did he make you  _wet_ , Delgado?'

His ragged breath is damp on her cheek and a wave of panic courses through her as he thrusts against her from behind. He wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't. 

'What do you say we check,' he whispers, fumbling with the top button her coat.

Enough.

With a muffled growl, Téa lifts her foot and stomps down with her stiletto heel. She hears a satisfying howl and Todd loosens his grip enough that she almost twists free, but he regroups, drives her face-first into the brick wall, and grunts as the hand covering her mouth absorbs the impact. He flattens her against the wall with his body, crushing her in his arms, kicks off her shoes, and shoves her legs far apart with his own.

'You'll pay for that,' he snarls and licks her cheek roughly from jaw to temple, leaving a wet trail that turns icy, bites down hard on her ear until she cries out.

'Scared yet?' He parts his fingers for her answer.

 _'Hijo de puta,'_  she spits, damned if she'll give him the satisfaction.

He squeezes his fingers together, silencing her again, and his laugh is high-pitched and ugly.

'I'd say that was about five percent scared, ninety-five percent pissed.' He shifts, pinning her differently but no less effectively. 'So where were we...,'

Cold washes over her as he yanks open the buttons of her coat, runs his palm over the thin fabric covering her belly. She gasps and goes rigid in spite of herself.

'Hmmm, could that be fear?' His voice is serenity laced with malice—is this how he talked to  _Marty_? 'What's the matter, buttercup, doncha  _trust_  me?'

Her blood turns to ice as his palm slides over her pubic bone.

The wind is blowing his silky hair across her face and his soft whiskers brush her temple as he speaks. There was a time she would have melted at this kind of contact; now she wants to vomit. She struggles, tries to scream, but she's trapped, helpless—for the first time in her adult life.

'I'm gonna bend you over these crates and I'm gonna fuck you now, Delgado,' he whispers. He thrusts against her and groans, and with sick horror she feels his erection, thick and hard through the layers of their clothing.

'Oh yeah, and I'm gonna shove my fingers up your ass until you scream, because that's what it's gonna take to finally shut you up.'

His knees are pressed into the backs of hers, keeping her legs wide apart, and he thrusts again, his breathing ragged. She's acutely aware of the liquid heat of it against her ear, and of his hand, poised like a weapon over her vulva.

He moves then, twists their bodies toward a stack of crates to their left and she's flooded with panic, all doubts gone. She fights him like a wildcat, twisting, bucking, clawing at anything she can reach. But wherever she moves, there he is—hard cock behind her, hot hand between her legs. The heel of his other hand is in her mouth now and she bites down hard, shaking her head like a pitbull, earning a yelp and a vicious slam into the brick again. He forces part of his fist into her mouth and throws his entire weight on her, crushing her breasts painfully against the wall, making her cry out around his knuckles. She bites down again, but he only laughs, that high-pitched, cruel sound.

'Now I'm  _really_  gonna have to hurt you.'

He shoves his hand up hard between her legs and rams his cock against her ass with a full-throated groan. Despite their clothes, she feels how hard he is… feels the truth of his intention.

 _God, no._  

Her body begins trembling...instinctively, violently.

'Oh, there now,  _finally,_ ' he whispers, his voice almost soothing. 'That wasn't so hard, was it?'

He pulls his hand from between her legs, shifts, lifts off of her a bit, and she hears the light clinking of metal. His buckle.

'And don't worry, we'll take our time. We have aaalll night.'

A wail that tastes like _hate_ rises, but is trapped in her mouth by his fist.

And suddenly she seems weightless. A voice in her mind is calling her down. There's nothing for her here anymore, so she goes inside. It's Del calling her, big brother Del who always watched out for her. He's scolding her...  _Ay, mija, eres una idiota, look at who he is, at what he's done… why should you be any different…_  and he's showing her images of Todd, flipping through them like a rolodex, images of rage and insanity, of possessiveness, of violence… all flashing in red neon like the Rodi's sign, like Todd's bloody scar, flashing in rhythm with her pounding heart…

_Idiota! Why didn't you run when you had the chance!_

But there's something else...deeper, more solid. She resists it, wants the hate, but it's pulling her away from Del's harsh, flashing red rhythm, lifting her effortlessly out of herself to a place where gentler images rise and recede like waves...of Todd holding Starr, turning her in his arms with a soft, unguarded smile…of him talking about his mother, his face raw with grief…of his eyes sparkling as he makes an awful pun…and he's touching her hand, a touch so tender, so full of fear and yearning that her heart opens, and he says…

 _Don't believe any of this..._ __

But his hand isn't touching her tenderly in the cold darkness of the alley. It's under her dress, yanking at her underwear and she is so small now, as defeated, as helpless she's ever been in her life...

Broken.

As the first tears slide down her cheeks, she feels him lay his weight on her—he's rock hard, panting, coiled to strike. She flinches as he drops his forehead against the wall next to her face, so close that his whiskers tickle her cheek. The knuckles of one hand fill her mouth, his other hand grips her inner thigh. His hot breath is reflecting off the wall and she tries not to inhale it. He is saying something, his tone different now, but she can't bear to listen. She catches only her name…

 _Delgado_ …

_Delgado..._

And like a clarion call to arms, it snaps her awake, returns her to herself— _not broken...not at all._ Red rage erupts, courses through her limbs, steels her, kicks her mind back online to start spinning out escape scenarios. _No way in hell_ she will allow him to do this to her. She's scanning for any opening, any weakness, when she realizes that he's repeating a phrase like a mantra. No matter how horrifying his words might be, she makes herself tune in...but she's so primed for fight or flight that the syllables hover just beyond her reach, sounding like English but making no sense...

Then their meaning descends like the answer to a prayer, leaving her weak with relief, body and soul.

'Now do you understand, Delgado,' he's whispering. 'Now do you understand?'

Not a lame attempt. Not lame at all. Quite effective, actually. He pulls his fist from her mouth.

'Yes,' she gasps, lightheaded, and presses her cheek into the rough surface of the brick, welcoming the reality of it, aware now of the wind chilling the perspiration on her face, of his fingers moving gently down her thigh, petting, soothing. She licks dry lips and forces herself to speak.

'I understand. I want you dead, you mother fucking piece of shit.'

He releases her abruptly, shoves himself away from her body, leaving her to collapse against the wall just as the Saint James church bell tolls midnight.

She hears the light clink of metal as he cinches up his belt.

'Happy New Year, Delgado,' he says.

And then she's alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Téa slides down the brick wall to sit on the frozen ground. Music is thrumming, making her chest vibrate. Muffled shouts inside Rodi's only yards away. Reality—alien, unreachable. She was part of that little while ago. Now she’s not.

 _Do you understand now, Delgado_ …

Do you understand what I am… what I’m capable of?

She doesn't feel the ice cold of the ground seeping into her bones right away, doesn't notice the empty take-out bag flapping like a wounded bird against her leg. She only knows that the ozone is gone… that her mouth and breasts ache… that fear is lessening with each breath. That rage is… close, and grief is closer. Mostly, she feels hollow, but full of echoes.

_I'm gonna fuck you now, Delgado…I'm gonna shove my fingers up your ass until you scream…now I'm gonna have to really hurt you…_

She stares blankly for a time, hears the back door of Rodi's screech open, releasing a flood of light and sound. She makes herself small so she won't be seen, not ready yet for…what? Not far away the dumpster lid creaks open, a soft whump and clatter as garbage bags land on garbage bags, dumpster lid slams, and the door screeches shut again, leaving the alley cold, dark and quiet.

Ghosts swirl around her, ghosts of terror and violence, of Marty and Luna… and of Todd himself, unconscious on the ground, his face torn and bloody…

And now Téa, too, will leave a part of herself here…

She blinks into the darkness, more awake now, more aware of her mind and the rising jumble of sounds and images working to fit themselves into a narrative. She tries to accommodate them, to think logically as she was trained to do, as is her nature, but she just wanders among them all like a stranger peering through open windows…

She sees herself swinging her shoe, the muscles of her arms and chest flexing with the imagined motion, watches her stiletto heel penetrate the soft tissue at Todd's temple, sink into his warped, sick brain, sees his body pitch sideways, flop like a fish, and die, his eyes frozen wide in surprise…

She sees herself entering numbers into the keypad on her phone…maybe it's better if she doesn't kill him herself. She knows people who know people. One call…

She sees them here, Todd and herself, pressed together, just before she understood it wasn't a game, when it could still have been his twisted version of foreplay, when his body felt good behind her and his liquid breath on her cheek made her shiver…

A child with long brown hair and Téa's big eyes is peering up at her… _But he didn't do it, he didn't mean it…it was pretend!_ Her voice is so innocent and hopeful that Téa's heart lifts a bit, wants to believe, but no…

 _We've seen his true face_ , _mija_ , Téa says to the child. He could do it…easily. He just chose not to, this time.

_I'm gonna fuck you now, Delgado…Scared yet?_

And there he is, bending her over the crates, pounding into her; brutal, soulless, smiling as she screams.

No more pretending, _Téita_.

The nausea catches her off guard and she hunches to the side just in time to miss vomiting into her own lap. When she's empty, she groans, wipes her mouth on her coat sleeve and slowly pushes up onto unsteady feet. The now free take-out bag goes skittering with the wind down the alley and into the darkness.

Téa starts looking for her shoes.

###

It's been years since Todd let that thing out, and now he’s shaken to the core. He'd forgotten how it felt—the euphoria of violence and cruelty, the erotic rush of power. He'd enjoyed breaking Téa. More than enjoyed it, he'd almost gotten off on it. There isn't enough booze in the world to erase that knowledge, and since there's no place he can hide from himself, he just goes home.

He doesn't expect to see Delgado again. He'd left her in a traumatized heap—there are no happy reunions after that, but that was the point. He lets himself into the penthouse in a daze, closes the door behind him, collapses on the floor in the foyer. It's as good a place as any for him. He curls into a ball.

He wants to sleep, can't sleep. Too many monsters when he sleeps. Too many monsters when he's awake.

_Delgado._

Well, he'd wanted to make her tremble and scream and beg. He got his wish.

His big toe is killing him—she got him good with that stiletto. He was proud of her for that. Part of him wanted to rape the shit out of her for it, too…but mostly proud. She was a fighter. Until she wasn’t. Almost all of them break in the end. He rubs his eyes with his knuckles, feels a sting, sees blood, stares for a moment. Right…he'd protected Delgado's face when he threw her against that brick wall. He's quite a guy. He doesn't want tears, can't use tears but can't stop them either, so they come until he's empty.

Tomorrow he'll send Shorty and Moose to Viki's. He'll call Briggs at the paper, tell him to run feel-good shit on the front page until further notice…newborns, puppies, whatever. Tell him to spread the word that he's to be left the hell alone—that his Plague is acting up.

It’s the God’s honest truth.

###

Rachel Gannon could at least have the decency to be surprised when she gets home after 3 A.M. on New Year's Eve to find Téa Delgado huddled on the floor of the hallway outside her apartment.

Instead, she just looks her best friend up and down, crosses her arms and says, “That _rat bastard_.”

As Téa throws herself on the bed in her old room, she asks Rachel, “Was I really the only idiot left in town?”

Rachel doesn’t say a word.

#

New Year's Day is a blur. Téa parks on the couch in front of the TV, wraps herself in a cocoon of blankets and watches the endless Mummer's Parade out of Philly. Even the goofy costumes can't rouse her from her daze. She eats whatever Rachel puts in front of her…breakfast things, lunch things, snack things…all gray, all tasteless. She answers Rachel's gently-phrased yet smug questions with grunts, absorbs her look of genuine concern— _something must be seriously wrong if Téa Delgado doesn't feel like talking—_ but then Rachel goes off to do whatever it is that people who aren't trapped in shitty marriages to psychopaths do on holidays, leaving Téa alone with the feeling that her world has slid sideways into the toilet.

How could her instincts have been so off?

 _But he didn't do anything wrong,_ that stupid, big-eyed kid is chanting again, the naive remnant of herself that still wants to believe, _has_ to believe…

 _Mami is coming home and she’ll have plantains…she'll hoist Téita up onto the red vinyl kitchen chair to drop the tostones one by one into the pan of spitting oil… 'Ten' cuidado, cariña, es muy caliente,'…_ Careful, sweetie, it's very hot _…yes, she's coming home any day now…_

It's a small voice, but so damned stubborn.

Todd assaulted me, _mija!_ And what he did, what he said…that doesn't just materialize out of thin air. He's done those things to who-knows how many other women. He’s a soulless, sadistic bastard and knew exactly what he was doing, which buttons to push…

And he was getting off on it.

 _He doesn't trust himself. He wants you safe…he wants you gone,_ the voice says.

Well done, then.

###

The second day of the new year, they send the wrong goddamned pizza. Pineapple sucks. Ordinarily, Todd would rain holy hell down on Luigi's Famous-whatsis, but fuck it. He has a few bites of a slice, flicks the pineapple chunks at the TV he'd pulled near the couch—not feeling the remotest bit of satisfaction when they stick to the screen—then he tosses the rest back into the box and sends it skidding across the floor.

It's a bottomless ache he's feeling now, not a scorching pain like before, when it felt like he was removing his own organs with a hot poker. He can probably live with it. There are a lot of things he's been living with.

He'd had mushroom pizza the first time it happened, after a game. A 13-7 win, lost the extra point because Antonelli whiffed the kick. He remembers the game better than the rape…that's how little it meant to him. He took her out to his buddy's car and they made out, then he just did it. He wanted a piece of ass, she'd gotten him going, he was a jock, who the hell was she to say _no_ to him?

It was only when he asked her out again and she looked at him like he was Satan that he put two-and-two together. But she was a girl…it's what she was built for. 

Boys aren’t built for that…though some people think differently…

All he really remembers about it is the rush. And the way the light seemed to fade from her eyes. He liked that part.

He's glad he hadn't seen Delgado's eyes. He knows that’s the one thing he wouldn’t be able to live with…

###

When Téa wakes to the cold blue light of winter filling the room, her first thoughts are of Todd.

 _This must be killing him_.

She sits bolt upright in bed.

 _Ay, Dios mio_ , she groans, grinding the heels of her hands into her eyes.  _Don't forgive him, don't go back…_ even as she feels drawn to do those very things. She looks at her palms, smeared black with the two-day-old eyeliner and mascara she hasn't had the energy to remove.

Another voice, his voice, says,  _Your mask is slipping, Delgado_ , but she has no idea what the hell that means.

 _I will not get sucked back in_...

She rolls out of bed, gets herself cleaned up and heads to the courthouse to file for divorce.

###

It's so easy to slip away when no one cares, so easy to become unnecessary, to just let the water close over your head, and sink into the cold darkness. Todd feels hands on him, large, like paws… his father's hands. He's fallen asleep in the tub again and it's dark and the water has grown cold. The hands are holding him under to teach him a lesson because he's stupid and bad and he never learns. He knows the hands won't let go until he stops fighting, so he does, but they keep him under anyway. His chest is exploding and just before everything goes black, he sees his mother leaning over the rim of the tub, curlers in her hair. Though she's distorted by the last air bubbles leaving his lungs, he can see that she's afraid. But she doesn't help him. She never does. He must be very, very bad.

Todd wakes, choking and gasping, pushes himself upright on the couch in the flickering blue light of the TV. It's dark out. His cheeks are wet. He works to control his breathing as he has hundreds of times before and swings his head toward the desk. The red light on the answering machine is steady… no new messages.

He feels around the cushions, finds what he's looking for, settles back again to watch whatever's on at this hour—a  _Roadrunner_  cartoon, how appropriate. Another poor bastard whose plans always backfire. He carefully folds Téa's soft maroon sweater, tucks it under his cheek and breathes in her scent until he drifts off to sleep...

###

The next night, Téa is standing at the sink, violently scouring a pot that doesn't need cleaning, lost in yet another bout of outrage and grief as the scene in the alley replays without her permission in a constant, maddening loop. She's been like this for days, ricocheting back and forth between Zen-like compassion and its opposite, between picking up the phone to order his murder one minute and wanting to take him a casserole the next.

Right now, contract killing is feeling pretty reasonable.

She's strangling water from the sponge when suddenly she's enveloped in ozone, her skin prickling with the stings of a thousand tiny bees, and she feels him behind her, as vivid and forceful as he had been that night. But instead of fear, she's shot through with arousal so acute her knees buckle.

_I'm gonna fuck you now, Delgado…_

Her head drops back and she shudders, grips the edge of the sink, heart pounding, vulva pulsing, sweat breaking over her skin. Horrified, disgusted, she shoves the feeling away, breathes deeply until she gets control of herself.

What the fuck _was_ _that..._

God she's wet. Ready.

And he’s there again, pressing hard, pinning her arms, restraining her, groaning low in her ear...his relentless hand sliding down…

_I'm gonna fuck you now, Delgado…_

She hears a snap, realizes she's gripping the sink so hard she's broken a nail. She pulls herself up with a curse, closes her eyes, tastes bile.

You thought he was going to  _rape you_ , you freak!

_But now we know differently._

Shit.

 _This is stress_ , she tells herself. This is post-traumatic  _stress_ , combined with Stockholm Syndrome, because what else could it be? And what else has  _she_  been for the last six months but a kind of hostage… to  _his_  needs,  _his_  rules,  _his_  suffering,  _his_  worldview… and hadn't she come to share it? To see his enemies as her enemies, to feel his pain as her own, to see him as a persecuted, misunderstood victim?

Throw in months of sexual frustration, and you have crossed wires. That's all this is.

She's seen his true face. He's a monster. Period.

#

But it's not that simple.

She lays in her bed that night, rigid, jaw clenched, struggling to make sense of her body's response, struggling to keep from being drawn down into a cyclone of self-loathing and fear.

It isn't possible that she was turned on by violence…by the threat of rape. She rejects that utterly. It goes against everything she knows to be true about herself. On some level she must have intuited that it was a charade, that Todd had no intention of harming her. And since the initial shock has faded, her body is reliving the experience without prejudice. And her body, to her dismay, is focusing on the erotic—his strength and unpredictability, his intensity and obvious desire...all heightened by the adrenaline that had been coursing through her veins and amplified by months of fantasizing. It only stands to reason—

She's abruptly distracted from the careful construction of her argument by tiny movements outside the window...small, delicate flickers of light...

Snowflakes.

And suddenly she remembers laughter. And the feel of his body as they fell together in the snow outside the Bayberry Inn. And closeness…his hands warming hers by the fire. And his anguish...

_Life irritates me, all the time...it's like I'm missing all this skin and rolling around on sandpaper…it's worse at night…_

Her heart swells then, aches again with the need she'd felt so acutely that night, but didn't dare admit to either of them…

_Let me soothe you, tell me what you need…use me…_

And with that acknowledgement, the storm inside her seems to ease...and judgement—good/bad, right/wrong—become meaningless. As she breathes her busy mind into silence, she gradually becomes aware of sensations and images gathering close. Instead of rejecting them, she watches them, invites them in... surrenders to them...

He comes to her then... bathed in red, light eyes flashing, buffeted by flames at the mouth of Hell. He's magnificent, virile, elemental and fierce, carried to her on drumbeats and incense, musical words and the scent of ocean... so ancient and primal, fleeting as a dream...

Something deep inside her knows him, needs him...and a hand slips between her legs then... _his_  hand—hot and sure, rough and penetrating. He's restraining her, dominating her with his body and his will, but there's no cruelty... just _power_ , pure and wild. His voice is liquid, spreading through her, commanding her, assuming her submission as his right. She feels that this— _this—_ is his essential nature. She turns her head to watch his eyes...and finds that they're haunted...tormented by doubt and guilt and fear...

But she knows him...and when she explodes in shuddering waves, biting back her cries, she understands that he's no longer poised at the mouth of Hell—he's gone in, willingly.

And she intends to go in after him.

###

It must have worked.

Todd is standing at the window on the morning on the fourth day of the new year. He'd hauled himself off the couch to pee and move around because his hamstring was cramping. A light dusting of snow had gathered on the narrow windowsill overnight; he'd like to touch it, feel it melt under his fingers, but the windows won't open this high up. A prison in the sky.

He's heard nothing from Téa. Some part of him has been hoping the whole thing was a nightmare, that she's actually been off visiting her  _abuela_  or whatever in Puerto Rico and she'll be calling any minute for a lift from the airport. He'd send a car, of course… he'd never inconvenience  _himself_  like that…

But he imagines pulling up to the curb where she's waiting outside, the glow of tropical sun in her cheeks. He gets out and puts her bags in the trunk. He sees that she wants to hug him hello, wants to say,  _I've missed you,_  and he wants to let her… so he does. Her eyes are warm and they heat something frozen solid with fear inside him. He could bring her home, he could take her upstairs, undress her, love her so tenderly, the way she deserves... make her happy. He could do that.

_I'm gonna shove my fingers up your ass until you scream… Now I'm really gonna have to hurt you..._

Yeah. He could do that, too.

He crosses to the couch and picks up her sweater, rubs it against his cheek, inhales her scent for the last time. Then he goes to the laundry room and drops it in the bag for the dry cleaner.

###

Late that morning, Téa rings the doorbell at Llanfair feeling downright confident. Last night was a freak occurrence, a weak, bizarre, uncharacteristic response to extreme circumstances. At the very worst, those…  _feelings_ … were something she'd had to get out of her system, like a virus. But she did and they're gone and they won't come back. She'd scrubbed her fingers raw for good measure. Now she's healthy, flush with new antibodies, and determined to dismiss the whole episode from her mind.

Todd Manning, freak of freaks, is no longer her problem.

Dudded up in her periwinkle skirt-suit, makeup fresh, hair perfect, she's come to inform Viki of the divorce, and—now that she sees Todd for the violent, unpredictable powder keg that he is—to get any insight on if and how he might retaliate. She doesn't want argument, she doesn't want drama, she doesn't want a shoulder to cry on.

So she's dismayed to find hot tears spilling down her cheeks at the sight of Viki in the doorway, holding a sleeping Starr. And even worse, she hears herself choke back a sob and say, 'Please tell me why Todd is the way he is.'

Viki smiles sadly. 'I've been expecting you, dear,' she says.


	5. Chapter 5

In the late afternoon on the fourth day of the new year, Todd is prone on the couch again, surrounded by empties of all kinds. He's driving away a fitful dream of gentle arms around him, of blood and horror, when he hears a key in the lock. He doesn't know whether to vomit or weep for joy. Or kill them both.

She's beautiful, as always. Hair perfect, make-up perfect, wearing a color that makes her skin shine like gold. Beyond that, he can't look at her, and rolls toward the back of the couch.

'Viki tells me you have The Plague,' she says. Her voice is soft, with the barest hint of a tremble, but it feels like razors under his skin.

'Oh my God, go away,' he gasps into the cushions.

'Starr misses her daddy.'

'Go away, Delgado.'

'Viki says—'

He rears up, yelling.

'You think I give a shit what Viki says? I  _don't_  give a shit what Viki says, Viki can go to hell!'

He knows that he looks manic, crazed, with wild, unwashed hair, four-day-old clothes, snot and tears crusting his face. Just wearing the inside on the outside to warn  _the trusting_ , as it should be.

'You better be here to pack up your shit, because if you're here to check on me…that's just too sick, even for you.'

_God, so harsh…gotta be harsh._

She winces, but lifts her chin and carefully starts toward him like he's a wounded, feral animal, and what is that... _compassion_  on her face?

' _No no no_ ,' he cries, scrambling over the back of the couch and away from her. 'Oh my God, you can't, you can't. Get outta here,' he moans and stalks the room, clawing his hair.

'Todd, I get it,' she says. Her eyes are warm and savage with forgiveness. 'I'm still shaken up, but I understand. Viki—'

'Screw Viki!' he roars, feels the cords of his neck straining. 'She thinks she's inside my head, thinks she has me shrunk, but she doesn't understand shit, and you don't understand shit, Delgado! Another thrust and I would have come, that's how much I liked it. Do you and Viki understand  _that_?'

He sees her flinch and swallow hard.

'Makes you wanna puke, right? Makes  _me_  wanna puke. That's what I  _am_ , Delgado, can't you see?'

Téa takes a few moments to compose herself, like she's about to present a summation. She lifts her hands to smooth her hair and he can see that she's shaking... almost imperceptibly, but he sees it.

Fear. Good.

She lifts her eyes to his. 'I don't believe that to be true, Todd,' she says, with a steady, rehearsed cadence. 'If that's indeed what you are, all you are, you wouldn't have stopped that night, and…,' she glances around the wrecked room—at the overturned furniture, scattered garbage and half-eaten food—then scans him pointedly, head to toe. 'You wouldn't be torturing yourself like this. I believe, in your own, admittedly  _twisted_  way, you were trying to teach me a lesson.'

 _Oh God, don't let her in._ Her body was so small in his arms. He'd always thought she was larger, tougher, because of the way she carries herself, challenges him… but she was fragile and so  _breakable_. His gut twists at the memory.

He spins in place, gesticulating wildly, feeling on the verge of hysteria.

'Did  _nothing_  get through to you, Delgado? Do I actually  _have_  to rape you? Yeah, it started out as a warning, and look what it turned into! I was just barely able to stop. What if I was angry or wanted to punish you—do you think I could stop then? 'Cuz I sure as hell don't!'

She stands there looking at him, brow furrowed, less sure of herself now. He seems to be getting through to her, so he pushes.

'Remember how you felt, Delgado.' Her face darkens and he knows she's feeling it again—the rage, helplessness, betrayal—because he's feeling it on her behalf. 'Do you really want that again? Or worse?'

'No,' she says quietly. 'But you obviously feel terrible, Todd—'

'Of course! I feel like freakin' shit, but it doesn't matter how I feel _afterwards_. The point is, I can't control it when it's happening! You have to get that!'

'But you  _did_  control it.'

'This time, barely, because I was trying to wake you up!' He digs deep, finds every ounce of caring he has for her, and channels it into a plea. 'Jesus, please, don't let there be a next time, Delgado.'

Téa stares at him and he turns his head quickly, bats tears away from his eyes.

She sits down heavily in a chair.

'No!' Todd says frantically. 'No sitting. Packing, leaving, that's what happens now, not sitting.'

'Just… please give me a minute, Todd.' She drops her head into her hands.

'A minute for what? To come up with another stupid justification—look, don't be a martyr here, I'm not worth it.'

'No?' She looks up sharply like he's given her an opening, and he groans.

'A lot of people would say you're wrong, Todd.'

'Idiots.'

'Viki is an idiot?'

'My sister has a blind spot. Orphans, rapists—that's her thing.'

'Okay,' she says, leaning forward. 'Sarah, CJ—'

'Kids.'

'Kids are smart about people, Todd.'

'Not these kids. You're forgetting Tina's their mother.'

'Jessica—'

'Only likes me for my bird.'

'Blair?'

'Blair's crazy, you said so yourself. And do you really trust the opinion of the woman who tossed you out a second-story window?' He's warming to the banter, so familiar, so _them_ … he can almost forget...

'Starr?'

'Shorty doesn't know any better. Besides, she's genetically programmed to put up with me.'

Téa purses her lips. 'You just have an answer for everything, don't you.'

'Damn right.'

'Well, what about me?'

'What about you?'

' _I_  think you're worth it.'

That hits him like a body blow. “Well, that's just—,” he stops, caught by her expression… open, beautiful, expectant; she’s so far beyond him it's like looking at the sun. He throws himself into his pacing again. “That's…that's some kind of character flaw, the way I see it, Delgado. You have this...this twisted messiah-complex thing going or whatever, and you're fixated on me, but you know what? It's not my effing problem. You just take your money and, hey!” He thrusts out his hands like a huckster on an infomercial. “I’ll even throw in an extra million if you get the hell out of here _right_ now.”

He turns away. 'I mean it. Get out. You should never have come back here. You just—,' his voice breaks and he has to stop.

He hears the sounds of Téa rising slowly from the chair.

'Just what, Todd?' she says, getting closer, voice gentle. So gentle, like a cool hand on a fevered brow… like a bared throat to a predator...

He's silent.

'Todd?'

'You make me wanna blow my brains out.'

He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but he’s been thinking about it—the welcome moment of oblivion. Damn shame he doesn’t have a gun. Still, now that he admitted it, she’ll see how painful her presence is and leave him alone. 

She's quiet for so long he thinks that she might have slipped out, run away, and as he turns his head for confirmation, he hears something that makes him double over like he's been gut-shot.

'I'm sorry, Todd.'

She's standing just inches away from him now. Much, much too close.

'You're  _sorry_?  _You're_  sorry?' He wheels on her with a snarl, brings his hands up to throat-level as if to choke some sense into her. 'Delgado, what the hell do you have to be sorry about?'

Her eyes lock into his, and it's like she's found a secret passageway through his defenses, because she seems to look  _into_  him in a way she hasn't before. Her eyes burn like searchlights inside him and he has to drop his hands and turn his back. She's seen far too much already.

Finally she says, gently, 'I'm sorry… for what it's cost you to... make me understand.'

He cocks his head, has a sense that she's doing that thing she does with language, to avoid telling the whole truth. He slowly turns to face her again, eyes narrowed. 'Understand what, exactly?'

She seems to want to hedge, opens and closes her mouth, then says simply, 'Understand how you see yourself.'

He slumps and moves away, tears stinging his eyes. 'You don't understand anything, Delgado. It's not just how I see myself… it's the _truth_ ,' he says, feeling as defeated as he's ever felt in his life. 'So all that…  _shit_ … was for nothing.'

'Todd—,'

He can't do this anymore. He mounts the stairs. 'Damn, I stink. I gotta take a shower,' he says, his voice flat, lifeless. 'Don't be here when I come down.'

And he can imagine it—longs for it—the moment she really is gone from his life, and there's no trace of her left to remind him, to shame him, to connect him to humanity. No kind, strong, luminous woman to give him the hideous idea that there may be hope for him… and he can finally stop trying. His sense of relief at the thought is matched only by his misery.

Her voice is firm when she speaks and it startles him. 'You're wrong, Todd. Not for nothing.'

He stops on the stairs and grips the railing, bracing for more horror.

She's looking up at him through her lashes as she has countless times before, but now she's not challenging or flirting. He's exhausted, has no defenses left, so he's able to really  _see_  her for the first time since she walked in. It's instantly obvious to him that something has changed. 

'I'll never trust you again.'

And there. Suddenly the sun comes out and it's his best day ever.


	6. Chapter 6

Téa wants to understand this Bizarro World she's landed in, where kind words cause anguish and cruel words cause joy, but as she watches Todd disappear up the stairs with an uncharacteristic spring in his step, she has to admit that she's struggling with the vocabulary.

 _Trust_. It seems like a magical word to him, imbued with power like an incantation. But to Téa, it's just a word. People either trust each other or they don't, for all kinds of reasons. Simple. Though in her experience very, very few are genuinely worthy of it.

But she's glad she could make him happy. It seemed crucial, under the circumstances...

_You make me want to blow my brains out..._

Despite Todd's flair for the dramatic, he'd meant that. She heard the pain, saw the moment play out before her eyes in vivid shades of red, felt the horror of his loss ripple through her body like nausea. The impulse had seized her again, overriding everything else—to help him, to soothe him—but her efforts just made it worse. The only thing left to say were the words he most needed to hear...

_I'll never trust you again._

It's the first time she's ever lied to him.

She hears the shower squeak on, lays a hand on the railing of the spiral staircase and looks up toward the sound, feeling disoriented. She's not entirely sure why she's here… she just knows that her car turned left out of Llanfair and she ended up downstairs, pressing  _P_  as the elevator doors slid closed.

Viki had been kind. As kind as someone  _can_  be while they serve you tea in bone china cups and turn your husband inside-out before your eyes. She described what she knew of the abuse Todd had suffered at the hands of Peter Manning and how it affected him, but with compassionate detachment, as though entering her own words would be too painful. But Téa entered them, and they broke her heart for the child Todd had been, reaching out for love and acceptance to be met only by ridicule, rejection, brutality... his innocent trust sadistically and repeatedly violated. Téa had assumed his childhood had been difficult—after all, no little boy  _wants_  to grow up to be a rapist—but now she had a clear lens to see him through, and a new tenuous understanding.

'That doesn't excuse the unspeakable things he's done,' Viki had said distantly, as though lost in a memory. 'But perhaps it's inevitable that one would grow a bit twisted exposed to the constant, vicious winds of a Peter Manning.'

_Perhaps it's inevitable._

She hadn't cried in front of Viki; she'd displayed deep concern, appropriate outrage, yet remained stoic. She was divorcing the man, after all. So she'd waited until she was in her car and out of sight before she let the anguish come, before she wept openly for Todd, for the sweet little boy whose mother had abandoned him to the whims of a sadistic monster.

Téa understands about abandonment—the hurt, loneliness, self-blame—she feels it re-awaken in response to Todd's suffering, wrapping around her so tightly she can barely breathe...

From nowhere, she hears a voice...

_I can't be his savior and keep myself..._

Her mother. She had said those words years ago, just before she walked out. Téa hadn't known what she'd meant until now.

Téa leans against the railing for support, feels alien in her own body and mind as she struggles to integrate…  _everything_. She pinches the bridge of her nose, tries to remember what  _normal_  feels like. Todd is supposed to be the mystery here, the enigma to be unravelled, yet Téa seems to be the one coming apart at the seams...

She shouldn't be here... she's not ready.

But she needed to see him... to...

_There is something very good in him, because no one exacts penance from him the way he does from himself..._

Viki's voice suddenly rings loud in her head. Yes, of course, _that's_ why she'd come here against her better judgement—to check up on him. And the state of him bore out Viki's words... walking into the mouth of hell, indeed. He'd been frantic, tortured... and Téa had taken the opportunity to sprinkle her compassion like salt into his gaping wounds, to watch him twist. She's not proud of it, isn't usually the vindictive type, but he made it so easy... until he didn't.

But maybe her... _cruelty_... was a form of self-defense; she thought she had prepared herself, but the sight of him had thrown her right back into the cold terror of that alley. She knows now that she hasn't recovered. She grips the railing with both hands, tries to steel herself against the storm of emotions raging inside and out. So strange, the feel of this place, thunderous, roiling with potential energy. It creeps inside her, puts her on guard. Had it always felt like this, or is this recent? Or is it  _her_?

She looks outside where it's bright and clean and winter-clear, watches the sun sink toward the horizon. As a child, she lived in a windowless basement apartment and couldn't see the sunset, so she imagined it. Even on cloudy days, she made the sky glow with all the most vibrant colors in the crayon box, and it would go on and on, shifting like a kaleidoscope until she was ready to wish her wish... then in her mind's eye she would create the first star of the evening, perfect and bright, and say... 

 _Deseo que mami llegaba a_ _casa…_ I wish mommy would come home...

It wasn't until the day she moved into this penthouse that she saw the first sunset to ever rival those in her imagination. Todd had run off somewhere after their sterile courthouse wedding, so she'd sat on the floor in front of the massive window, gathered Starr into her lap and pointed at the horizon, chattering excitedly in Spanish…  _Ooh, rosa! _Dorado_!  _Violetta y_ amarillo,  _ _que bonita!__ …_ rapturous as the colors washed over their faces. Starr giggled, tried to repeat the strange sounds, and when the first star appeared Téa leaned down, her heart full of love for her new daughter, and whispered,  _There you are, mi Estrellita!_ _Make a wish!_  Starr had looked up at her, eyes round as saucers, knowing, as every child knows, that wishes come true.  _I want Mommy!_  she'd cried, and Téa had understood. She'd pressed her face into the soft baby curls and whispered,  _Me too_.

And then Starr had squealed and crawled from Téa's lap, scrambled on her chubby legs to Todd, standing silently behind them. As he'd bent and scooped his daughter into his arms, he looked at Téa, his face awash in warm sunset rose, tears shining in his eyes.

And that's how he'd won her trust. It had been that simple.

Ridiculous, given who he is, who she is, their arrangement, but there it is. Trust. Like a child's—unquestioning, complete—the kind she hasn't felt since her mother. The kind that keeps reaching and reaching, even when it's broken and battered. He must have seen it and it terrified him... so he had to kill it dead before it killed her.

But he hadn't killed it. She looks around at the chaos, recalls the panic in his eyes when she first walked into the room. The panic… and the unbridled joy. He had put himself through this to drive her away, to protect her.

And now she trusts him more than ever.

It's herself she doubts...

Because is it really possible to trust, fear, and desire someone, all at the same time?

###

The water is almost hotter than Todd can stand, but it slides over his skin like absolution, so he takes it.

_I'll never trust you again…_

Those simple words offer such… freedom.

He's off the leash now, won't have to spend every moment on guard, because she'll keep her distance, both physically and emotionally, and he won't ever again be in a position to lose control and hurt her. She'll look at him like he's shit, the way she should, like Marty and Nora and Dorian and the rest of the women in this goddamned town who aren't related to him look at him.

She'll be safe.

He hopes she's downstairs, and hopes she's not. Hopes she's long gone and hopes she never leaves, even if it means having his ass dragged through this thing from every fucking angle, because  _those words_  make it okay. They're a shield around her… a promise.

_I'll never trust you again…_

And because she'll never be close to him again, because he'll never have another chance, he allows himself to remember.

The night in the alley has been there all along, playing behind him like a movie, the volume low, occasional bits of dialog breaking through to sicken him. Now he turns to look at it head on and does what he swore he'd never do… he uses it. He enters the action, feels her small body struggling against him, her hot, wet breath on his palm, and he grows hard. With steam rising around him, he takes his cock in his soapy hand, pulls at himself roughly, leans his forehead against the cool tile of the shower.

He imagines his hand between her legs again, feels the contours of her pussy through her silk underwear, remembers her scent… smelled it on his fingers as he walked away from her in the alley. Heat and fear… that's what he smelled.  _Heat and fear_.

His cock leaps and he shudders, strokes faster.

_She is trapped, helpless, shaking with terror. He bends her over the stack of crates, and with one hand shoves her dress up over her hips and tears her panties down. Her ass is as perfect and unblemished as she is…. his to brand. He hits her hard with an open palm, and again as she tries to wriggle away, and again until he sees his handprints rise on her flesh in angry red welts. Only then does he free himself, and as he shoves savagely inside her, he pulls his hand from her mouth so he can hear her scream._

As his balls tighten, he reaches down, turns the hot water all the way up and thrusts his cock into the scalding spray as he comes, his semen splashing the tile, and so she won't hear his agony, he jams his knuckles into his mouth, just like he did to her.

When it's over, he slides down the shower wall, the steam shrouding him. Goddamn right she shouldn't trust him. Great news. But the tears fall anyway.

###

The sun is touching the horizon now, and Téa knows she needs to leave. She wants to leave, wants to extricate herself from this mess, stop torturing them both and move on with her life before she becomes someone she can't recognize.

Viki had laid a hand on her arm as she was leaving Llanfair. _You're good for him. In fact, he needs you. I do hope you'll reconsider the divorce._

She hadn't meant to be cruel.

_I can't be his savior and keep myself..._

She'll leave a note telling Todd she's filed for divorce, that she may only be contacted through Nora Gannon.

But as she's thinking these things, she's toeing empty soda cans and foul-smelling pizza boxes aside and picking her way to the couch.  _Not just yet,_  she tells herself,  _There are things to resolve..._  but maybe it's really because there's still too much juice left in this live-wire they call a marriage, maybe it's because, despite everything, she never feels more alive than when she's engaged in this complex dance with him. And until the dance is well and truly over, she may as well get comfortable.

A muted Ren and Stimpy cartoon flickers on the TV near the end of the couch. Téa clears a spot, seats herself and stares at the crusty things stuck to the screen until she realizes they're bits of pineapple… Todd hates pineapple. She lifts a hip and digs the remote out from between the cushions beneath her, watches a few minutes and can't help but smile. Most men would self-medicate with booze and sports and porn... Todd uses junk food and cartoons.

As she clicks the power off, it hits her—this is a coping mechanism leftover from childhood. Alone, with no one to comfort him, this is how he would heal when Peter Manning got through with him.

Hot tears of grief burn behind her eyes, and her fingers flex with the desire to squeeze the life out of that monster who called himself his father. And in the next instant, she realizes that she has forgiven Todd. Compassion and understanding seem to have overwhelmed the rage, the hurt, the betrayal... no doubt her trusty fight-or-flight response will have an opinion on the matter when she lays eyes on him again.

And so will Todd.

Maybe that makes her an idiot.  _Idiota_. Probably. Definitely.

But to her credit, a quick scan tells her she hasn't forgiven him completely. He may be suffering, remorseful and damaged, but he's still been a shit to her for months. She tosses his pillow and blanket onto the floor, wipes her shoes on them, just because.

She catches her distorted reflection in the black TV screen and is struck by how accurate it is. She  _feels_  distorted, warped… ashamed. She's tried not to think about last night, about Todd dominating her in her imagination like some mythic warrior, the overwhelming, darkly erotic pleasure of it—she'd come harder than she can remember. All day she's tried to push aside the hum of it, the visceral memory, but to her disgust, it's just gotten stronger. Submission is as alien and repugnant an idea to her as a desire for violence… yet she was wet the moment she unlocked the penthouse door.

She's fairly certain it's temporary, an artifact of trauma, or the result of crossed wires… the conclusion she was reaching last night before those goddamned snowflakes interfered. She had obviously known subconsciously that he had no intention of hurting her—she had, after all, imagined his voice saying  _Don't believe any of this_ —and her body had simply responded in an instinctual way to the powerful latent sexual connection that has always existed between them. This incident just made it manifest. That must have been what happened to him, too... that's why he'd been so aroused.

Not by the violence. Neither had been aroused by the violence.

They were aroused by proximity and a long-smoldering mutual desire. Plain and simple.

It sounds good, anyway. The key is getting Todd to admit it, so Téa can respect herself again.

###

When Todd comes downstairs, in clean sweats and a t-shirt, his muscles loose, his hair wet, she's there, of course. That's his Delgado. But he can't bring himself to look at her.

The sun is setting, spreading a warm, rosy glow over the stark room. He feels irritated, blames her for the light, for this undeserved softening of his harsh world. The place is still a mess—he's always respected her for not picking up after him—but she's turned off his TV and cleared a spot for herself on the couch. She's eating from a sleeve of crushed cookies.

He's glad he got rid of her maroon sweater… she'd definitely have something to say about that being a part of his makeshift bed, and somehow she'd know he'd been clinging to the damn thing like a security blanket.

'I've been excavating in your couch,' she says, not quite meeting his eyes, the slight tremble back in her voice.

 _Fear_.

Good.

'That's gross, Delgado,' he says. 'I don't even know how long those have been in there.'

'Uh-oh. My standards seem to have dropped even lower than yours.'

'That explains why you're still here.' He plops down into a chair, drums his fingers on the armrest. 'I guess it saves me a million smackers, anyway. Thanks for that.'

'I wanted to clarify something, now that we're a bit calmer,' she says. She clears her throat, lifts her chin.

He makes an exasperated noise, but the predictability of it all is comforting. He's willing to throw her a bone.

'Whatever.'

'As accurately as you can recall,' she says, twisting closed the cookie sleeve and setting it on the coffee table, 'What were you feeling when you had me pinned against that wall?'

She knows she didn't have to phrase it that way, but she's not quite done jabbing at him. His jaw drops, but she doesn't let him respond.

'Because I suspect that what started as a _warning_ escalated not into violence but into sexual desire.'

So much for throwing bones. He won the battle, but he clearly hasn't won the war.

'That didn't seem like violence to you, Delgado? You need to take some women's studies classes. I was  _getting off_  on your fear.' He feels the blood drain from his face at hearing the words out loud... in light of his recent shower.

She doesn't seem to notice. 'Are you sure? Pretend you're on the witness stand.'

'I lie on the witness stand.'

'Please try, Todd.'

'Why, what does it matter?' he grumbles.

'Let's just say it matters to me, okay?' She leans forward, heart pounding, palms pressed together. She can't help but stare: he looks so beautiful, so powerful, even lounging there in a chair. She thinks of a lion sunning itself on a rock.

'Hypothesis.'

Todd groans.

'Just play along. You saw me dancing with Antonio that night and it made you jealous—'

'I was not jeal—'

'—but in addition, maybe you were… attracted to me. Maybe you felt desire, and you didn't know how to deal with that.'

As Téa warms to her argument, she begins gesturing with a rhythmic grace that reminds Todd of the way her body moved on Rodi's dance floor. He longs to watch her. Instead, he leans forward and snatches the sleeve of cookies from the table.

'Your jealousy frightens you because you believe that strong negative emotions make you lose control—'

'—you just crawl out from under a rock, Delgado?' he says, opening the sleeve loudly. 'I always have strong negative emotions.'

She ignores him. 'And that leads to violence. Desire? Well, you've decided that also leads to violence. But instead of talking to me about your feelings—heaven forbid—you fell into the familiar pattern of warning me away, like… an injured dog snarling to protect itself.'

Todd shovels a handful of cookies into his mouth and crunches, spraying crumbs over his t-shirt. His eyes rove the room and land on everything but Téa.

'When that still didn't work, you decided to play the rape card—the one thing you believed would send me running. But that required physical contact. When you were pressed against me, and your hand was… where it was—'

'—freakin' hell, Delgado. Just—'

'—you quite naturally became aroused. But because sex and violence are so intertwined in your mind—'

'—hey, that's Viki talking—'

'—you assumed, based on your past and the beliefs you have about yourself— _Todd is and always will be a rapist, Todd's a monster_ —that your arousal was not caused by simple, healthy sexual desire, but it was caused instead by the scenario you'd created, by your threatening to rape me.'

He stares straight ahead, his face bathed in the red light of the setting sun and full of something newly familiar that makes Téa's blood run hot. She leans toward him in a way that would be cocky if her eyes weren't so moist and pleading.

 _'_ Thoughts, Todd?' 

_Please say yes, please tell me that's what was going on..._

His body is still humming from his orgasm, his cock red and sore from the scalding water, but he didn't hold it under long enough to blister this time, not like when he thinks of Marty. He should tell Delgado all about that.

'I think you're an idiot,' he says instead, his voice low with warning. 'And you should shut up now.'

Her body warms at his tone, at his implied threat and her gut twists with self-disgust.

She presses on, an edge of desperation in her voice. 'But you're not denying that it's possible, Todd? This is so important.'

'It's not important,' he growls. 'Why would it be important.'

'It is to me.' She pulls a deep breath, ready to take a chance, hopeful beyond all reason and experience that this may be something she can share with him, that they can work it out together. 'Because something… happened—'

'No!' He bolts from the chair, balls up the empty wrapper, aims it at her head, but hurls it on the floor instead. 'We covered this Delgado! You said you got it, that you couldn't trust me anymore. Was that bullshit? Just how big a masochist  _are_  you? You're looking for a way to give me a pass on this thing so you can be right and I can still be poor, misunderstood Todd. First I was trying to protect you, now you think that maybe I was just a little horny for you? Well, that's  _not_  the way it was.'

She exhales a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. She's grateful for his outburst; it saved her from a truly stupid declaration.  _Of course_  he wouldn't understand. This man is not her friend… she doesn't know what he is, but he'll never be someone she can confide in, someone she can share herself with. He's so full of hatred for his own impulses and desires, how could she expect him to understand hers? She feels like she's ripped off a blindfold and can see again, can engage in their complex dance without tripping herself right over a cliff.

Whatever this thing is, she'll get over it. On her own. It's temporary, after all. She cocks her head at him, her attitude lighter... this could still lead someplace interesting.

'So, Todd, I'm just completely nuts, huh?' she says.

He looks at her curiously, noting the shift. She needed something from him before, and now she doesn't. He feels himself relax, rolls his head around on his shoulders. 'Okay, fine, since you ask, fine. Did I hate the sight of you humping Vega on that dance floor like some horny Spanish… whatever? You're damn right I did. You're  _my_  wife and if there's any humping to be done—'

She raises her brows at him.

'You know what I mean, Delgado, don't do that eye thing.'

'So you  _were_  jealous.'

'Not jealous. I'm paying you five—'

'Million dollars...,' she sing-songs.

'Damn right! _Five million dollars_  to act like my wife in public, not shake that ass of yours at some burrito bake-off in front of a bunch of slobbering—'

'Oh, by the way, Todd,' she says, mischief in her eyes. 'I never answered your question.'

He stops in mid-tirade, his mouth hanging open. 'Wha—?'

She feels a wave of panic. Shit. She thought she could do this… change the tone, break their cycle of pointless bickering, but she's not that person anymore, the one who could banter with him just for the fun of it. Because she  _wants_ _..._ badly, and being near him makes it exponentially worse. Something raw and ancient is surging up from beneath, threatening her self-control and if she continues, she might give too much away. She should just go back to Rachel's until this  _thing_  fades.

'Nothing, Todd,' she says, rising from the couch and looking around absently for her purse. 'Never mind.'

He cocks his head, intrigued. She's been all over the place tonight and for a change he feels like he has the advantage. He presses it. 'No, Delgado, what question? You interrupted what was shaping up to be a really great rant, so out with it.'

 _Just go!,_ she screams at herself _._

He's silhouetted in the window, loose and relaxed, a teasing half-smile on his face, the red-gold of the setting sun sparking the strands of his hair like fire. His shoulders are so broad in that t-shirt, so strong, his drawstring sweats slung low on his hips...

_I'm gonna fuck you now, Delgado…_

She knows now that she was wrong. It's more than simple desire she feels… it's far more complicated, more dangerous.

And while there's no hint in him of the man from the alley, it's too close to the surface, this new, shameful thing. If he sees it, he might hurt her in other ways.

Or hurt himself.

_You make me want to blow my brains out..._

She needs to leave, to put distance between them. Be safe.

Be  _safe_.

Or not.


	7. Chapter 7

Stupid to stay. Wrong to stay. Selfish. Every reason in the world to walk out that door and not come back.

But she can't. She turns to Todd, a darkening silhouette in the window to the world beyond, a world that's bright and clean and winter-clear... and she realizes with a sinking heart that  _that_  is not the world she wants anymore. And it's not who she is... never has been. This is where she  _lives_  now, in every way that matters, in chaos and heat at the edge of a darkness that both draws and repels her... a darkness that she's struggling against seeing in herself...

_Your mask is slipping, Delgado…_

_Idiota! Why didn't you run when you had the chance!_

She takes a deep, steadying breath. There  _must_  be a way of getting to some kind of truth, some  _satisfaction,_  without revealing herself... a way that won't leave either of them bruised and bloodied. She got nowhere with her Desire Theory, but she hasn't discounted it. She just needs to refocus... maybe she can find a way around his road blocks and move things forward in spite of him. Maybe then those dark, uncomfortable impulses will just fade the hell away...

Todd is staring at her, waiting, watching the wheels turning in that head of hers… plotting.

'You asked me a question, Todd,' she finally says. 'On New Year's Eve.'

Todd winces inwardly at the possibilities.

_Scared yet... Could that be fear... Did he make you wet, Delgado..._

'You asked if it turned me on, to, what was it…  _gyrate_  in front of a roomful of horny lawyers.'

He stifles a sigh of relief that she didn't go… there.

'Yes,' she says. 'Yes, as a matter of fact, it did. And are you wondering about your other question?' She lowers her chin, looks up through her lashes.

They stare at each other until it dawns on him where she's headed. 'Don't do this, Delgado.'

'Look Todd, I asked you to admit some things you may not be comfortable admitting—that you were attracted to me that night, that were you jealous—so I should admit some things, too.' Her voice is low, smoky. 'You asked if it turned me on to know that every single guy in that place—'

'Delgado—'

'—wanted to  _fuck_  me.'

He spins away from her, all but claps his hands over his ears.

'Your words, Todd.'

'What the hell are you  _doing_?' His voice sounds like gravel, feels like gravel in his throat.

'Just trying to satisfy your… curiosity.'

He feels her heat as she moves up behind him.  _Oh God, get away, get away…_

'So yes, it did turn me on. It made me...,' she takes a deep breath, plunges ahead. 'It made me... wet. You saw me, you watched me with Antonio—could you tell?'

 _Jesus_. His fists clench involuntarily.

_Did he make you wet, Delgado? What do you say we find out…_

_She was so small in his arms…_

'I thought we were through with this shit,' he snarls, keeping his back to her, but his cock is swelling at her tone, her words.

She can't stop herself, doesn't want to, though the air feels dangerous, charged, prickling her skin with the faintest hint of ozone.

'I felt so… so  _sensual_ … for the first time in months, dancing like that…,' she says. 'I saw that they liked what I was doing, the way I looked and moved. They admired me, Todd. Some of them wanted me… I could feel it. You would never—,'

He closes his eyes. Such sadness in her voice. He silently finishes the thought for her… 

_—touch me, want me, love me..._

He flinches when her fingers brush his shoulders, but he doesn't sprint away. Then he feels the gentle, warm pressure of her palms. So strange to be touched, even stranger to allow it, but he can't move, seems riveted to the spot by a kind of perverse fascination… 

 _What are you doing, how can you touch me, after what I_ …

...and a dawning horror...

_Jesus._

_Broken. She's broken, twisted... I did this..._

She traces her fingertips down his back slowly, noting the shallow breathing, the small groan. She imagines she's caressing a wounded predator who might turn on her. Her heart is pounding, her mouth dry, like an attack is imminent. She's almost hoping for it.

'I wonder if it aroused you, too,' she continues quietly. 'To be there, to see that other men wanted me but couldn't have me. Because they knew I belonged to you, Todd… and only you could take me home that night… take me to bed.'

Her fingertips register the quickening of his breath, the rising heat through the thin cotton of his shirt. A fire ignites low in her belly… she's shocked that it's working, that he's allowing this intimacy.

'Only you... touching me, tasting me…,' she reaches the hem of his shirt, dares to slip beneath to caress the warm skin at his waist. He flinches again, but doesn't stop her.

His eyes are squeezed shut. He's caught between misery and acute arousal, her fingers like flames on his skin. God, her words…  _Yes, I was turned on,_ he wants to tell her _, and crazy with jealousy, and proud… Yeah, yeah, I deserve this torture_. And then like a cold slap of relief, he gets it—

She's _fucking_ with him. Punishing him.

Because what else could this be but punishment after what he did to her? All that  _compassion_ , all that crap before about _desire—_ she's been fucking with him the entire time. And her need for revenge must be intense for her to tolerate being this close to him. He expects to hear her start puking any time now, wouldn't be surprised to feel a kick to his crotch, a knife in his kidney. And he would welcome it… because it means he didn't break her, that he didn't make the light fade from her eyes. And because he deserves it. He flashes on images from his shower— _the angry red welts rising on her skin, his cock ramming inside her..._  

Téa has to close her eyes and draw a deep breath to compose herself… Todd's scent is warm, spicy, his skin so soft under her fingertips as his body sags and he leans almost imperceptibly into her touch.

'You, Todd,' she continues, whispering. 'Only you, entering me slowly, moving inside me...'

She can feel it, everything she's saying, and she's trembling with it, wet. And relieved that this is enough to arouse her. There's nothing dark here, no violence... and certainly no submission. Not on her part anyway...

She dares to slip her hands around to touch the hard, tense muscles of his stomach, and gathers her courage for one last volley.

'You, Todd… fucking me, making me moan,  _making me come_ —'

He gasps and shivers, sways back against her body and stays there, fists tight at his sides. He deserves this...

Téa holds her breath and carefully slips her hands down and inside his loosely-tied drawstring pants, feels faint as he allows it, his breathing shallow and ragged. Her body flushes with heat when she finds no impediment… no boxers, no briefs… nothing but him. She drifts lower, below his navel and finds the soft trail of hair leading down his lower abdomen, so close. And down, oh, yes… to graze the hard flesh of his erection, his soft groan and gentle rocking thrust burning through her like wildfire, then to stroke her fingers slowly along the silken skin, tracing the gentle flare at his tip… moving now to encircle him…

'Enough,' he gasps. He grabs her wrists and pulls her hands back up to his stomach, outside his t-shirt this time, and he holds them there in his own. He's breathless, trembling.

He is silent for a long time, vibrating, his body coiled like a spring, just like in the alley. It's the same tension, and, she realizes, the same  _fear_. Fear of losing control... or of being seen? But she'll have to analyze later... right now he's speaking, and his voice is a soft, low rumble that feels like a tongue kiss between her legs.

'Are you done with me yet?'

It sounds like a plea.

'No,' she whispers.

_Never._

Her body is warm and insistent against his, her arms hold him with an energy that feels so much like…  _love_ … that he has to drop his head back to keep a tear from splashing onto her wrist. That would be death, to let her know she got to him in this way. He can hear her mocking laughter, her triumph. He destroyed her trust in him with violence. She's trying to destroy his trust in her with _lies_.

And it's working.

She nestles against his broad back, the ends of his long, damp hair tickling her cheek, and she rests… grateful for a quiet moment. This is going better than she could have dreamed, and though he's stopped, he's not pushing her away. Such a struggle for them both, to get this far. And such a struggle for her still, to ignore the tangle of voices in her head…

_We've seen his true face, _he is a monster_ …  _You're good for him, he needs you… One more thrust and I would have come__ __..._   _I can't be his savior and keep myself...__

But she quiets them all and concentrates on his thudding heart like it might tell her why it took him so long to reveal that he's human. He's responding to her, intensely, and the intimacy of touching him has left her dizzy, aching for...  _more_.

And in a vision that rises up from deep inside, she sees Todd turn slowly, eyes savage, black. He overwhelms her, engulfs her like red flame, penetrates and drives himself inside her again and again, leaving behind all his pain and fear, merging and dissolving within her...

As the vision fades, a deep feeling of  _rightness_  surges through her, leaves her reeling... euphoric, like a clean wind has suddenly swept up and blown away all her rigid beliefs about herself...

It feels like _freedom_.

Todd drifts in Téa's embrace... soothing, so soothing, despite this deep, familiar ache of longing. He's aware that he shouldn't let his guard down, that she's probably not done punishing him yet… but to be held this way…

Her arms suddenly remind him of something… flashes of red in his head and the sensation of slipping… and he's once again inside the dream he'd had earlier, just before she arrived, of  _her_ , of  _Téa_ , draped along his back, holding him in a tender embrace as he raped someone so viciously that his knees kept slipping in blood.  _He cranes his head toward her voice above him, straining to see her face as she whispers obscene words of encouragement to him. He's close to coming, so close and she cries, 'See? She loves it!' He looks down into the face of his victim and it's Téa's face, dead, her eyes sunken, her lips pulled back in rictus..._

'Oh fuck!' he groans into the twilit room, twists away from Téa's arms—in the dream she held him like that, just like that! _—_ and he doubles over, hands on his knees, bile rising in his throat.

'I can't,' he says, gulping air. 'I can't—just stop this!'

Téa stares blankly. The last few minutes have left her feeling transcendent, suspended in a fugue state, and it is delicious, dangerous and she has no idea what's happening...

'Todd?'

'This game, this bullshit game to punish me. What's the punchline? Just fucking get it over with.' He's gasping for breath, looking up at her wildly through his falling veil of hair. Téa emerges from her euphoria enough to realize that he's very close to a panic attack.

She's confused, still buzzing, but things need to be done.

'Todd, here,' she says, reaching for him so she can guide him to the couch. He flinches away from her now like she's toxic.

'I got it. Just…'

He drops onto the couch, his head in his hands. The room is dim now; he looks spectral in the purple hues of twilight.

'Try and take a deep breath.'

'Yeah, no shit,' he says dropping his head between his knees. He's struggling, gulping shallow, ragged breaths punctuated by groans.

'I'll get you some water.' She moves off robotically toward the kitchen, dumbfounded.

It's so calm in here, quiet... she senses the change immediately, like passing beyond the perimeter of a blast site. She takes a moment, lays her trembling palms on the cool granite countertop to steady herself, lifts her hands to her face to press the cool there too. Her cheeks are burning hot. She crosses to the sink and wets a dish towel, lifts her hair and presses it to the back of her neck.

_Bullshit game… punchline…_

It hits her like a thunderbolt, and with a choked, incredulous laugh she understands... what an idiot! She thought they were connecting, on the verge of a powerful breakthrough, and he thought, what… that she was playing with him to get even, to  _punish_  him? She laughs again, dryly, humorlessly, feeling bereft, her eyes burning with tears. She grabs a glass from the cupboard, braces her body against the sink to keep from slipping to the floor, and fills the glass from the tap. She drinks it down.

She thought she was so close. And she was… to throwing herself away with both hands.


	8. Chapter 8

Téa clicks on lamps as she brings Todd his water. After her brief stay in the kitchen, the room's thunderous atmosphere rumbles through her again, tightening her. She's amazed by how easily _she_ acclimates, adjusts to his way of being, even comes to enjoy it. She doubts he could ever adjust to hers... or that he'd even try.

In her culture, the woman was expected to adjust to the man... and stay adjusted, even when she'd had enough.

_No puedo ser su salvador y sostenerme, mija..._

Her mother's voice, again, like a confession.

_I can't be his savior and keep myself, my darling..._

And a memory comes of her father, her _Papi_ , nodding off in front of the Mets game. Téa loved the Mets, but she wasn't watching the TV, she was watching him. If she timed it right, she could rouse him and he'd be tired enough to go to bed under his own steam. If not, he'd want a refill of his rum and then he'd pass out in the chair and there was no way she could to move him by herself... the boys were out, as usual. _Papi_ was always so embarrassed and ashamed when he woke up in his chair in the morning, especially if he'd thrown up on himself. Before she left, _Mami_  had always timed it right. And she had aways remembered to grab his glass and cut the rum with water when he'd get up to pee, but Téa forgot that night. She would never forget again...

Todd is sitting upright, blinking in the sudden brightness, his breathing raspy, but steady. He's watching her warily, with haunted eyes.

'You okay?'

He nods.

'Want this?' She stops near him, not too close, and extends her arm.

'Yeah,' he says, takes the glass and downs the water in one long pull. He returns it to her, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

'Done torturing me?'

'Yes,' she says. 'You've had enough. We both have.' No point in trying to correct him. Best to leave things as they are... just let him think it was all about killing him with kindness. If he sees her…  _affection_ … as punishment, there's nothing to talk about. Besides, she had poured herself out in those last few minutes with him, risked more than she ever has in her life, and now she's empty. Numb.

'So what happened,' she asks dully, a fist on her hip. 'The freak out.'

'Thought I saw a mouse.'

She lifts her brows at him but he just stares back. She decides not to press and surveys the wreckage instead. 'You planning to straighten this up yourself or…'

'You offering?'

'Never.'

He half smiles at that. 'What's-her-name'll be in tomorrow.'

'Loretta—,' '—Lolita,' they say over each other.

'Whatever,' they say in unison and laugh, an eruption of surprised sounds.

Their eyes find each other, then dart away.

Téa feels her heart swell; so very many moments, even in the midst of all this pain. Goddammit.

A long silence follows. It's a good time to leave, she decides, if the dance is well and truly over. Everything ventured, nothing gained—except more heartache and confusion. Her fingers warm with the memory of his erection, the feel of his skin… she knows she'll think of him tonight and touch herself, maybe allow the dark desires from beneath to take her one last time. She's certain she'll cry bitterly right after she comes. And tomorrow she'll notify him of the divorce.

'Well, I guess I should…'

'Look, Delgado, just for the record,' he says, running his hands through his hair. 'All that stuff about not trusting me anymore… was that bullshit? Because you got pretty freakin'...  _close_ , even if it was only to get back at me... or whatever.' He looks up at her with open suspicion.

_Yes, Todd, it was bullshit. I said it because I felt sorry for you..._

It's on the tip of her tongue... no point in continuing the lie.

But instead she hears herself say, 'I don't need trust. I have a gun in my purse.'

'AHH,' he says, surprised, and leans back. 'That's good. I'd hate to think you were lying to me.' He eyes her purse on the end table. 'Mind if I take a look?'

She's got him intrigued... it's satisfying to have a little control again.

'I do mind,' she says. 'A woman's purse is private.'

He nods, says distantly, 'That's what my mom always said.' He works his jaw. 'So… I have to take your word for it.'

'You do.' She lowers herself into the armchair, feeling recharged, and sets the empty glass directly in front of her purse like a sentry. How easily the two of them fall back into their rhythm, their dance...

'What if I ask you nicely to show me your gun, Delgado?'

'I'd say you should  _trust_  me.'

'Very funny,' he grumbles.

She settles back and delicately crosses her legs, smooths down her skirt. 'So, Todd...,' she begins as though confronting a witness. 'Your trust thing... it's important to you, isn't it? You need to be able to trust me, but I'm not allowed to trust you.'

'I'd say that's an oversimplification of my _trust_  thing, but essentially correct,' he says, mocking her tone. He stretches out on the couch, noisily shoving empty cans and take-out cartons onto the floor.

'And why do you have it set up that way?'

'Because  _you're_  not the miserable scumbag rapist. And you're evading about the gun.' He folds his arms beneath his head and closes his eyes, then opens them quickly and grimaces as though his mind just showed him something ugly.

'Why is it so important to you, Todd?'

He doesn't reply at first, seems lost in the visions in his head. He shakes them off. 'Which, my  _trust_  thing, or the gun?'

'First one, then the other.'

'Simple, Delgado,' he says. 'When you trust someone, they can get close enough to kick the shit out of you. If you don't, then they can't. QE2 or whatever.'

'I think you mean  _Q.E.D_.,' she says. The memory flares of Todd in the alley, trying to convince her that he's a monster...  _I wanted to, I was going to, and that's just as bad..._ before he realized he'd need more than words...

'That's not really correct in this context, but it's sweet of you to remember.'

'Whatever.'

'And wow.'

He cranes his head toward her. 'What wow?'

'I'm just surprised. That was such a… revealing, straightforward answer.'

He turns his head back, looks at the ceiling. 'You're the only one evading here, Delgado. If we both evade, we'll end up talking about arthritis or camels or something.'

She laughs out loud and watches him bite back a smile. Things seem normal again—normal for them—and Todd is almost relaxed, reclining on the couch, his hair spilling over the cushions. His t-shirt has ridden up, his sweatpants are low on his pelvis and her eyes are drawn to his taut stomach, the curve of his hip bone. Her fingers twitch with the visceral memory of heat and hardness. She hates that still, after everything, she wants to kneel beside him, take him in her hands and stroke him, feel his fingers in her hair, hear his deep groan as she lowers her mouth, takes him between her lips, sucks him so slowly...

Normal. It's a normal fantasy, relatively healthy, one she's had a hundred times. She's fine. Everything is fine. But then she feels the ghost of him behind her again, hard, his hand between her legs…  _I'm gonna fuck you now_ … and the usual low burn flares, becomes almost unbearable. She shifts in the chair, struggles to continue her line of questioning.

'So, you…,' she falters, has to start again. 'So, you think if I trust you, you'll kick the shit out of me.'

'You've seen it,' he says quietly. 'Right?' He doesn't give her a chance to respond, doesn't give her a chance to remind him that what happened in the alley was a charade. 'And don't say  _shit_ , Delgado.'

'Why not?'

'I dunno, it sounds… not you.'

'What should I say?'

'Say...  _poop_.'

She laughs at the child-like innocence of it, and he allows a soft smile.

'So  _poop_  sounds... me?'

'Absolutely.'

'Okay, well rest assured, I don't  _want_  you to kick the poop out of me.'

'Okay. Good.' He sounds genuinely relieved, like those words have the power to put any of his remaining doubts about her to rest.

'And... you trust  _me_ , Todd, even though—'

'I'd trust you more if you'd show me your gun.' He cranes his neck around to her again, looking comically expectant, and pouts when she shakes her head broadly.

'Even though I... as you said, I  _punished_  you just now.'

'But that wasn't kicking the shit out of me for no reason, Delgado. I deserved that.'

'So…,' she pauses, trying to follow his logic. 'You trust me because you believe that I won't hurt you... without  _cause_.'

He's still looking at her, and he grows serious, his eyes widening like a child's. Her heart swells with pain, remembering Viki's description of his father's sadism. How much of Todd's behavior can be traced back to that man?

_Perhaps it's inevitable that one would grow a bit twisted exposed to the constant, vicious winds of a Peter Manning..._

Todd searches her face for a long moment. She looks right back at him, opens herself as much as she can, hopes he'll see and accept the things he won't allow her to say. He turns away and resumes staring at the ceiling.

'Yeah,' he says quietly. 'Dumb, huh?'

Tears sting her eyes. She's amazed he still has the capacity for trust... and the fact that he's chosen  _her_  is _..._ humbling _._ She's aware of the value of this gift and longs to be worthy of it, to lay herself over him like a blanket, protect him from everything that might cause him pain. 

_I'll never hurt you..._

It's on the tip of her tongue, but it's another lie. She seems to hurt him constantly.

 _Like he hurts me,_  she reminds herself. Yes. She can't forget that. After all, he just saw her desire for him as a form of  _torture_.

She straightens up, tunes in to the thunderous feel of the room, lets it harden her. 'So, how about if I only kick the poop out of you in self-defense,' she says.

'Yeah, that's okay.' Another smile starts to tug at his lips, then stops. 'Like the other night.' His tone is dark, cautious.

In an instant she's back in that alley on new Year's Eve, back in the cold, body flooded with adrenaline fear, betrayal... damn amygdala. She doesn't want him to see, pulls a few deep breaths, draws on the energy of the room, manages to master herself. He  _knows_  what he did... why won't she let him see how it affected her? She wonders if there's a chance they'll ever talk honestly about that night. About who they really are... 

'For example,' she says, going for nonchalance. 'How… how is your foot, by the way?'

'Mangled. Hurts like hell. How's your… soul?'

'Oh, uh, it's—,' she starts, thinking he's referring to the sole of the shoe that stomped him... but he's watching her too intently. 'Umm, how are you spelling that?'

'S—O—' he pauses. 'U—L.'

'Oh,' she says quietly and swallows hard. 'Mangled. Hurts like hell.'

He hisses, pulls his hands from behind his head and covers his face.

'I do things, Delgado…,' he says, his voice thick. 'It's like there's this  _thing_  inside me… Jesus, if you knew what was in my head…'

His self-loathing is so close to the surface she can almost see it, like a living thing roiling just beneath his skin, vivid, as the rest of him—his playfulness, angry defiance, vitality—seems to fade before her eyes. She suddenly has a notion that the energy of the room may be a finite resource… that the more she uses to steady herself, the less is available to him to maintain his defenses. If that were only true—and of course it isn't, but if it  _were—_ maybe she could keep going, tell him the whole truth about herself, her confusion and desires, while he's more open... maybe he could  _hear._..

She takes a deep breath. 'There are things in my head, too, Todd,' she says cautiously, hopefully. 'Things that I want—'

'—not like this, Delgado. So much shit... bloody nightmares and...  _you_...' he groans, grinds his hands into his eyes as though trying to pulverize what he's seeing. 'How can you stand to be here… do you like torturing me  _that_  much?'

She releases the breath she's been holding. No, in fact. She doesn't like torturing him at all... not like this. So much for seeing herself as a protective blanket. And the truth is, she doesn't like torturing herself, either. She rises tiredly to her feet.

_Just stop trying._

'Todd,' she says. 

He drops his hands from his face and pushes quickly to his elbow when he sees her standing.

She shakes her head. 'This is just—'

'—no!' His eyes fly open and he looks panic-stricken. 'Even torture is—,' he stops himself, swallows and she watches in dismay as his defenses slam back into place. 'Right. Get out.'

'Todd, I just, I can't do this—,'

'I get it, Delgado, we're even,' he says, dropping back onto the couch. 'You should get a medal for sticking it out this long.' He folds his arms over his chest and stares past his feet at the dark TV screen.

'No, Todd, it's not about punishment or torture! I—,' she stops, pinches the bridge of her nose, works to steady herself again, but the energy of the room is depleted. She's on her own.

'Just what the hell are you still  _doing_  here, Delgado!' he bellows at the ceiling.

And there he is, the Todd she can deal with. And here  _she_  is, bristling at his familiar tone. She sets her jaw and makes a decision... defenses or no, fear or no, it's time for a little strategic honesty.

'Todd,' she says, calculating risk, and decides to approach this obliquely to test the waters. 'What if I told you... that I don't really have a gun in my purse.'

'Then you would be a liar,' he says, visibly stiffening. 'And you're not a liar.'

She sits down again, back straight, and brings her palms together in front of her. 'According to you, I've been lying since I got here.'

'That's different. You were playing me, making me think you were nuts... to get back at me for what I did to you in that alley.'

 _Nuts?_ That confuses her, but she presses on.

'Maybe I'm still playing you. But not in the way you think.'

He rolls onto his side and looks at her intently, warily, energy bristling. He seems on point now, and Téa knows where all the room's energy went.

'How are you playing me,' he says quietly, dangerously.

'Well,' she says, smoothing down her skirt, no longer sure this was a good idea. 'Maybe when I said I didn't trust you, I was being a bit... dishonest.'

His face darkens, but his voice remains calm. 'And why would you be  _dishonest_ about that, Delgado?'

'Maybe I felt you needed to hear that... so you'd believe you didn't go to that dark place... for nothing.'

His eyes narrow. Even prone, motionless, he is vibrating like a live-wire, making her skin prickle. 'And why would you care?'

She's silent.

He sits up, swings his body around and plants his feet on the floor. 'Delgado, why would you care?'

'Maybe because you were suffering.'

'And why the hell would  _that_  matter after I nearly raped you?'

'You didn't  _nearly rape_  me, Todd, you—'

'Yeah, I did. You have no idea how close I came.' He's glaring at her from under his brow, so intensely that her resolve begins to fade. Is what he's saying  _possible_...? Has she just been blindly justifying and excusing and rationalizing away the truth because that's how she wants it to be? She scrambles in her mind, gathers all the confusing tendrils of this thing so she can weigh the evidence...

She certainly believed at the time that he would rape her, felt his rage his violence, felt his  _erection_... and of course he'd  _said_  as much...

He's staring at her, seems to be trying to force his way into her mind, and she feels somehow less substantial to herself, less  _her_ , transfixed by him...

She forcibly breaks the spell and it's a quick verdict: No. It's  _not_  possible. She was getting too close and he was desperate to convince her that he's a monster, so she would stay away. He's still trying... but he's not a monster and he's proven it in a dozen ways tonight alone. But she has no idea how to convince  _him_  of that. Compassion and honesty clearly won't work...

She tries a different tack.

She lowers her chin, looks at him through her lashes and forces a challenging smile. 'Don't forget, Todd, I might still be playing you,' she says, modulating her voice, making it low, smoky. 'This is all hypothetical.'

He leans toward her, and it's like watching a squall gather on the horizon. 'Okay, counsellor. Hypothetically, if you were being dishonest with me—and we're not saying you were _—_ that means you still  _trust_  me, and I'd have to conclude that you weren't, in fact, trying to punish me before for  _nearly raping_  you, and that everything that happened here—,' he suddenly drops the pretense that he's opposing counsel and his voice breaks. 'All that shit you said about... about me taking you to  _bed_ … the way you were  _touching_  me… what I felt from you… you weren't faking it to get back at me, you were—that was all…  _real_. You wanted—,'

He stops, his eyes wide with disgust. He seems to be looking past her at some private horror playing out in his mind. He drops his head into his hands and groans.

'If that shit was real, after what I did to you. Jesus,  _Téa_ , that's sick… so sick...'

 _Téa_ … the shock of hearing him say her name with such loathing... the intimacy of his revulsion...

_Sick... so sick..._

She feels gut-shot but forces a laugh, holds her palms out as though blocking his condemnation. 'Wait, Todd, hypothetical, remember? Don't jump to conclusions!'

He rouses himself, looks up, seems to snap out of it. 'Right,' he sighs, running a clawed hand through his hair. 'Still playing me, is that it?'

'Maybe.' Her face is a mask of non-chalance, but an arctic wind is blowing her inside out, shredding her like an old sheet on a line. Without even knowing it, he is rejecting her... utterly, ruthlessly.

_Sick...so sick... Nuts._

She had treated herself just as harshly earlier, so she's surprised by how hard this hits her, to taste bile rising in her throat, to feel so gutted by him. A still rational part of her says she should simply admit the truth and lay out her reasons for trusting him in a logical and concise manner—that she knows he was trying to protect her, that he's torturing himself for his actions—and she should explain her sexual desires as best she can, and since they're both adults, maybe they can reach an understanding...

Maybe, if this weren't Bizarro World and he wasn't the damaged fuck who had just skinned her alive.

Rage has quickly replaced humiliation and pain... and what was that about kicking the shit out of him in self-defense? She'd say this qualifies. Not that she's the  _vindictive_  type…

'Wow,' she says, with mock sympathy and surprise. 'The idea that I wasn't faking it really bothers you, doesn't it, Todd? Most men get upset if they find out a woman  _was_  faking it.'

He glares at her. 'You're  _still_  fuc—screwing with me, aren't you?'

She gives him a condescending smile. 'Todd, you  _can_  say the F-word in front of me. I won't get the vapors.'

'Just answer the question. Are you still screwing with me?'

'About what?'

He heaves a sigh. 'About whether all that shit was real.'

'Maybe. Maybe not.'

He groans, fists his hair. 'Okay, then answer this: Do you have a gun in your purse, yes or no?'

'So everything hinges on that? Todd Logic says that if I have a gun in my purse it's because I don't trust you, and the only reason I'm here is to exact revenge by making you think you drove me crazy by trying to rape me in that alley, and the gun is to shoot you like a rabid dog if you go for a repeat. But, at least I was  _honest_  when I said I didn't trust you.'

He nods once, like he couldn't have said it better himself.

'And if I don't have a gun—'

'—then you're a liar, and I was an idiot to ever trust _you_ ,' he says, tears springing to his eyes.

She freezes, stares at him. Maybe there's more at stake here than her own ego. Only moments ago she was imagining herself as a blanket, protecting him from harm, and now...

'Todd, I—,' she says softly, lifts a hand toward him. They need to stop this, before—

'—and you're a a  _freak,_ a sick, perverted masochist, for... for throwing yourself at me like that after what I did to you. And it's all my fault.' His eyes on her are hot with suspicion and urgency. 'You  _know_  what that would do to me, right?'

She drops her hand and says nothing, feels blasted apart. 

_Freak... sick, perverted masochist…_

It echoes in her head and feels...  _fair._  She drops back in the chair, drained. What if... maybe he  _did_  do something to her, maybe... what happened in that alley damaged her more than she knows. Those desires aren't  _her,_  they're so... alien. But they're very real.

 _Freak_... _sick, perverted masochist..._  

Maybe he's right. And it's true that she lied to him... he's right about that, too. He should never have trusted her. And she  _must be_  insane to trust him...

She makes sure her face is the picture of serenity as she struggles to keep from crying.

He's still glaring at her. 'I  _said_ , you know what that would do to me, right?'

She regains control of herself, nods and forces a sly smile. 'Yes, Todd, I know what that would do to you.'

And wouldn't that be the best punishment of all?

His eyes are dark, unsure, but there is a plea in them. 'So which is it… are you a sick, perverted masochist, Delgado, or is there a gun in your purse?'

They stare at each other, and even from this distance, both physical and emotional, she can feel his power, the ozone storm of him, his will assaulting hers. Her skin prickles under his brutal condemnation of her... and of himself.

She feels muddled, confused... she'd had good reasons for forgiving him, hadn't she? The justifications, the excuses... she can't remember any of them now. God, how  _badly_  she'd wanted him... how sick... after what he did? He had terrorized her, it had aroused him and he had almost  _raped_  her... those are the facts. How could he have  _done_  that to her?! How did she get so twisted up about it? She fingers the broken nail she'd meant to repair, but hadn't... and this  _want_ , this  _sick want_...  _Freak_. Sick, perverted masochist.

She collapses inside, hollow, everything blown away.

Nothing left to lose.

He's waiting, watching...

She draws a deep, steadying breath. 'Maybe I am, Todd,' she says, her voice shaky and foreign to her ears. 'Maybe I am, as you say, a _sick, perverted masochist_.' She leans back slowly, licks dry lips. 'If I were, I guess I'd say that you... did something to me that night... woke something up in me that I don't understand, that terrifies me. I would tell you that I want you so much it hurts.'

Her voice has grown soft, full of emotion, and as she speaks, she watches the color drain from his face, leaving him ghostly, his eyes wide, lips parted.

'If I were a sick, perverted masochist,' she continues, her hands beginning to slowly pull the hem of her skirt up her thighs. 'I would tell you that I touched myself last night, in bed, thinking of you. I'd tell you how hard I came, imagining you dominating me, and I want more, I want it for real. I'd say I want you to overpower me and use me for your own pleasure, do whatever you want to me.'

She barely knows what she's saying, just that it's true. She's wet, shivering. She parts her thighs, slips her hands between her legs.

'I'd say I want to submit myself to you, in spite of everything,' she continues breathlessly. 'Because I know how much you suffer, and nothing matters to me more than your pleasure and your happiness... not even my own will.'

She stops, gasping, her hands pressing into the silk, the heat between her thighs. And there it is, at last, her confession... for both of them to see. If her self-abhorrence wasn't holding her together, she's quite sure she would disintegrate.

Todd is staring at her hands with black, glittering eyes. His breathing is harsh, his own hands clenched into fists and he looks like he doesn't know whether to cry, vomit, kill her or fuck her. Doesn't matter anymore.

She is far away, unmoored, feeling like a broken, demented shell of herself as images flit through her mind... of the alley, of imaginary sunsets, of _Papi_ slumped in his chair. _Papi_... defeated, broken.

Téa... defeated, broken.

She feels slapped by the image, roused. A wave of familiar defiance begins to surge through her, stiffening her as it makes its way, waking her up... Oh, hell no.  _Not_  broken. She digs deep, through the mountain of confusion and humiliation and despair, and finds her mind, clear as ever, and an odd thought comes: Her favorite law professor used to hand out bumper stickers on the first day of class that read,  _The Truth Lies Somewhere in the Middle..._  and Téa took it as a play on words... still does. Yes, the truth  _lies_ , and there will be time to figure out exactly where, but right now, she needs power.

She allows herself to feel every ounce of rage, hurt and hatred she's been trying to rationalize away, and she channels it, levels her eyes at Todd, still motionless, shell-shocked, and curls her lips into a malevolent little smile.

'So, Todd, that's what I'd say if I were a sick, perverted masochist.' Then she adds brightly, 'Fortunately, this is all hypothetical.' She yanks her hands from between her legs, snaps her thighs shut, slides her skirt down and reaches toward the end table.

He jerks as though awakened from a dream, his eyes hazy, unfocused.

'Hey, Todd, up here!' She calls, digging into her purse.

She watches him drag dazed eyes up from her lap.

'Smith and Wesson .38,' she says, holding up the revolver between them. 'It's not fancy, but it gets the job done. Wanna hold it?'

He seems to collapse in on himself and drops his head into his hands.

'No? What's the matter, Todd, confused? Yeah, it's kinda hard to keep up.'

There's a moment, and it's only a moment, when she imagines aiming the gun and saying his name again. His eyes widen as he looks into the barrel, then soften with acceptance. Maybe even gratitude. There's no recoil when she pulls the trigger, just a gentle click. A dark spot appears between his eyes and he slumps back. It's quiet, peaceful. They're both free.

'So Todd? Consider this me kicking the  _shit_ out of you,' she says. She stands and drops the gun back into her purse, lifts the strap over her shoulder. He hasn't moved. A fractional part of her wants to reach out, make sure he's okay, but the rest turns for the door feeling... satisfied.

She's in the foyer when like a shot he's in front of her, blocking her way.

His eyes shine like ebony, his breath a blast furnace on her skin. 'Where the fuck do you think you're going,' he growls.

The fear response kicks in and she recoils, her body floods with adrenaline, her heart pounds. But _God_ , the ferocity of him, the power… she shivers as the oxygen rushes from her lungs.

She almost wishes the gun were loaded.

**_To be continued..._ **


End file.
